


not to fear the laying of my head upon the pillow

by 13thDoctor, JHarkness



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2018-12-09 03:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11661012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHarkness/pseuds/JHarkness
Summary: In 1946, two days into the start of the New Year, Collins receives a phone call that promises to alter his life after the war forever.





	1. Six Years On

**Author's Note:**

> Since there isn't much to go on for the characters of Collins and Farrier, we have decided to develop a lot for them, including backstories and NAMES. Collins, our beautiful Scottish boy, is Finlay Collins, and Farrier is Thomas Farrier. Various original (and relatively minor) characters have been introduced in order to further this story and their relationship. Obviously, then, this is going to be LONG. We shall do our best to upset regularly, but we are both University students, and we want this to be the best it can be, which requires research and time. Thank you in advance to anyone who decides to spend that time with us.

The last seconds to midnight were counted down on a pocket watch.

Drinks in hand, the entire population of Oxton, Scottish Borders crowded around Finlay Collins, breaths clouding in the winter air. Orange, black, and brown hair turned white as the snow fell, but no one paid attention to the weather. They were waiting for 1946. Between the clinks of glasses and bits of gossip, people slurred and shouted in their anticipation. Collins could hear his heart beat out the end of the year. It arrived with an explosion of cheers and toasts, champagne pops and exhilarated screams. Beer sloshed out of glasses, lips pressed together in fervid kisses, eyes turned heavenward. Though the war had ended three months ago, the dawning of the new year ushered in another wave of hope and promise. Collins was hugged fiercely by his grandmother, who he had to bend down to hold.

“ _Bliadhna mhath ùr_ ,” she whispered to him. _Happy new year_. He repeated it back to her before kissing her cheek. The local children came for him next, jumping on his legs, arms, and back as they squealed. They chased the snow as if was their first snowfall; pink tongues peeked out to catch every flake, and they squealed delightedly when those crystals melted in their mouths. Collins ruffled their hair and swung them through the frigid air before setting them down. The younger ones stumbled, dizzy. Laughing, he pushed them back toward their parents, who apologized profusely even as he assured them not to worry. He could hear the children's complaints--“ _But maw, he’s givin’ me flyin’ lessons”_ \--as he took his granny’s arm to lead her back to their cottage.

A few people were scattered on the streets, either smashed, stumbling, and singing, or holding their loved ones in tight embraces on the way home. Collins could hear “ _Auld Lang Syne_ ” around every street corner. He wrapped his arm around his granny to warm her, knowing that if the chill could find him even in his wool coat, it would be seeping into her bones. She smiled fondly and patted her grandson’s hand. The mittens she wore she had made herself, dark and thick and matching the pairs she made for all the children in winter.

Collins couldn’t wear them anymore. He couldn’t stand the clumsiness of his fingers, how he couldn’t grip something right. It was laughable, he knew, to bring a fear of _mittens_ back from the war, but he had done so all the same. So she knitted him scarves instead, and he wore them bundled up snugly beneath his chin.

The walk was short; Collins saw their cottage, nestled cozily in its own little corner of Oxton, in two minutes’ time. Its stone walls were surrounded by his gran’s garden in the summer, but currently all the shrubs had hidden themselves away from the cold. Collins couldn’t blame them.

He hurried up to the stoop, his gran shuffling next to him until they came to a stop for him to root for his key.

“I wish he could have come out with us tonight,” she admitted suddenly, gripping Collins’ arm like a vice. “Your granda used to love the New Year.”

“Maybe next year,” he offered, knowing that his grandfather would not leave the house next year, or any of the years after that. She smiled sadly, knowingly.

“Yes, maybe next year.”

As he reached for the doorknob, warm thoughts of the fire and a dozen hand-made quilts drawing him inside as quickly as possible, Collins heard the unmistakable click of a shotgun behind the door. Slowly, he pushed his grandmother behind him and placed his hand on the window beside the door so that his grandfather could see his RAF ring.

“Granda, it’s just me and Gran,” he said slowly, still in Gaelic. “Just us. I’m going to open the door now.”

“Carstaine? Fionnlagh?”

“That’s right. We’re going to come in the house now, alright?”

The gun’s muzzle scraped the door when Collins’ grandfather lowered it. Carefully, Collins turned the knob, asking his gran to stay outside for another moment. She nodded, one hand pressed to her mouth and the other holding her hip. But there were no tears. The women of the Collins family were made of sterner stuff than most folk.

Softly, Collins called, “Granda?” and repeated it louder when there was no answer. The house was pitch black and freezing. As he walked farther in, he checked every corner he passed. Eventually he found the man wearing nothing but his nightshirt and snow boots, shotgun set across his lap as he stared at the ashes in the fireplace. “It’s cold, sir,” Collins tried first.

“Mm, ‘tis cold, Air Commodore,” he growled in thickly accented English. “But we cannae let them find us, ye hear? Always watchin’ for smoke.”

Collins exhaled. “Marshal, your wife is gonnae freeze if we don’ light this again.”

There was a spark of recognition in the old man’s eyes. Suddenly, the hard lines in his face crumbled into something fragile and confused. “Fionnlagh,” he gasped. “Where’s my Carstaine?” Collins gently lifted the shotgun and placed it out of reach as he called his grandmother back into her home.

She entered with her head held high and a smile on her face. While the Marshal apologized, Carstaine simply shushed him and kissed his forehead, smoothing back his thinning grey hair. Collins worked on the fire first, pulling fresh logs from their indoor pile and setting them alight just as his grandfather had taught him. Almost instantly the house was warmer; he breathed a sigh of relief and shrugged off his wet coat. Carstaine gathered it from his arms and went to hang it to dry. When he jokingly refused to surrender the scarf, she pressed her lips to his cheek--standing on her tiptoes she could barely reach--and slid it off his neck.

“I’ll put a kettle on,” he told her, switching back to Gaelic as he crossed the living-room. Though his grandfather spoke English, learned by necessity from his time as an airman, his grandmother had never left the small villages of Scotland. She had no desire to speak anything but her native tongue, even though Collins’ parents had asked her to learn since they raised him to speak both languages. Of course, that didn’t matter anymore.

Through another door was the kitchen, with an ancient black kettle already resting on the back left burner of the stove. Right away he filled it and set it to boil. Carstaine appeared a few minutes later, a shawl over her shoulder and her husband by her side. There was an alertness to him that pleased Collins. He beamed at the pair of them.

“We’re off to bed, love,” she said, “though I’ll take my tea with me.”

Collins left the tea to her expert skills so he could go stoke the coals in the furnace. His grandfather had neglected it in their absence, and even with the fire, the cold pervaded the old stone cottage. It would take a while to heat back up and reach the upstairs bedroom. He wasn’t worried, though; his gran had enough blankets to cover the entirety of the British Expeditionary Force.

She left a cup waiting for him on the counter, made just the way he liked it; no milk, just two spoons of sugar. He added a little whiskey for good measure. After a moment of deliberation Collins also grabbed a few butter shortbreads from the cabinet that a neighbor had brought by earlier in the day. He took both to his favorite armchair--it had been his father’s--and settled in. The table next to him was stacked with six books, two of them Gunn novels that had been published during his service that he hadn’t been able to find in the small English bookshops he’d encountered during weekend leave.

Although Collins’ constant vigilance had not vanished once he had arrived home, he knew it was slipping when the combination of a hot fire, steaming tea, and a good book had his eyelids drifting closed. He rubbed his hands over his face, groaning. With a stretch he stood, putting his book back down before taking his teacup back to the kitchen. He washed and dried it quietly, careful since sound traveled so well in the house, and then went to the washroom to brush his teeth and prepare for bed.

His grandparents’ snoring, usually so loud even a floor above his room, was always drowned out during the New Year celebration. There would be fireworks soon, and all the teenagers would run through the streets shouting their hopes and dreams to the new sky. Collins’ last New Year’s wish here had been to be a war hero.

He’d never imagined the price.

Of course, there were rewards that filled his grandfather with joy and him with the sense of purpose and belonging that that young Scottish boy raised in a small village never thought he’d achieve. Collins stroked his thumb over the Distinguished Flying Medal sitting on his bookshelf. He hadn’t known where to put it, too awe-struck with it even in his hands, so it sat with his adventure books and miniature model airplanes. Often those little metal figures felt realer.

Collins tore himself away from the medal and the memories that came with it. The few seconds between taking off his day clothes and changing to pajamas were frigid and unwelcome; he lunged for the bed and its thick comforters as soon as all of his shirt buttons were fastened properly. Snuggling beneath his covers like a child, he fell asleep dreaming of snow, listening to the sounds of revelry drifting in from the streets.

When Collins opened his eyes, he didn’t need to check a clock to know it was exactly five in the morning. It was the time he and his squadron had awoken every year during the war. The habit was a hard one to lose, and he doubted he’d ever lose it, if his grandfather’s four AM awakenings were any indication. Marshal Iain Collins had done his time as a fighter pilot and then some. He’d taught both his son and grandson how to fly, but couldn’t even go near his own plane anymore, tucked away in an old barnhouse used by the family for decades. The plane was a rickety old thing, probably kept alive through sheer force of will alone. Collins had been repairing it before he enlisted, and had meant to continue after the war ended. Once there was less snow, he promised himself, he would walk out there and finish it.

He donned his robe and tied it tight. Fortunately, the house was still warm, which meant his grandfather had been alert enough to work the furnace that morning. As he opened his door to the hallway, he knew he’d find the Marshal in front of the fire in the living room, shotgun across his lap and a contented look upon his aged face.

“Granda, do you want a cuppa?” he asked at the doorway. It stood in the center of the room where Collins could watch Iain nod and cradle his gun. That used to scare him as a kid, thinking Iain might shoot him on his way down for breakfast, but his father had taken him aside one day and said, _It makes yer granda safer ta have it than it makes ye nervous ta see it._ Collins always thought that was fair.

Collins put the kettle on as he blinked the rest of his drowsiness away. Finally looking out the window, he noticed that the snow had piled itself in high drifts against the house. What used to be a field and pathways and various other cottages was now a blank white expanse. Snow still fell on that blinding bright surface, smooth like a fresh-pressed shirt and sparkling as the sunlight hit it. Collins knew the village kids would trample through it soon. He remembered the snowball fights and forts, the chattering teeth and soaking wet boots. His grandmother used to invite the whole street inside for hot drinks and homemade raspberry buns. They’d always been a bit too dry--Carstaine was a better knitter than baker--yet they’d been inhaled in minutes nonetheless.

There were no raspberry buns this morning. There was, however, now a full kettle of tea; the Collins household would be incomplete without it. Collins sat and enjoyed his cup in comfortable silence with his grandfather, waiting for Carstaine for breakfast. She was up by six, and prepared a veritable feast of black sausage, eggs, and toast with marmalade that Collins helped devour no later than seven. After that, knowing the rest of the village would be stirring soon, he took another moment to appreciate the snow’s serenity before he ran back to his room. Opening his closet, Collins found his warmest wool sweater and flying jacket, laced up his boots, and joined the men in digging out the village.

Collins was greeted with bleary ‘G’morning’s by hungover men all headed toward their barns. They trudged through the snow, digging themselves paths with the shovels in their hands, the older men sharing the same stories they did every year about each winter before, the younger men sharing stories of the night’s exploits.

“I remember the winter of ‘14; what a year,” someone said, brushing snowflakes off his arm, “We got fucked with tha’ rain.”

“Just like yer granddaughter las’ night,” one of the village boys whispered behind Collins. His friends cackled raucously and slapped him on the shoulder.

Shaking his head, Collins pressed on, already sweating under his many layers. He wasn’t looking forward to dragging the tractors out. But more men joined as they walked, bringing along their young sons for the first time. Collins had missed so many weddings and births it had taken him until the end of September to catch up on everything that had happened in Oxton without him. Of everything, that had been the hardest adjustment--life had simply moved on.

He’d known it would, of course. Pilots were so keenly aware of the time because keeping track of it--and the fuel--often became a matter of life and death. Collins’ father and grandfather had drilled that concept into his head, and later he’d experienced it firsthand in his squadron.

But that was a memory for another time. Collins made his way ahead of the group and shoveled ferociously, hoping the strain on his muscles would distract from the heartache creeping in. Each shovel-full brought his head back down closer to the ground; he would sigh with relief if he had enough breath in his lungs to accomplish it.

“Noo jist haud on,” the village’s bookshop owner, Mr. Wilson, insisted. “We’ll get these tractors out ye break yer back or not.” When Collins didn’t stop, he pressed further. “Slow down, lad.”

“Snow’s still fallin’,” Collins countered. He wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Finlay. There’s no clock to beat here.”

Collins considered him for a moment, wondering if Mr. Wilson had watched this happen to his father and grandfather when they returned from active duty. Then he nodded, slowly, and smiled. Mr. Wilson smiled right back and patted him on the shoulder. “There’s a good lad,” he finished. Then, louder, “Let’s get back to work so the lasses bring us some whiskey!”

The proposal was met with whoops and cheers. Boys who had previously fallen, panting, into the snowpiles now sprang up with renewed vigor. Mr. Wilson added that this whiskey would be far better than the piss they were drinking last night, and Collins could practically see the boys drooling. He laughed. Then they went back to work.

When his wife Agnes arrived, Mr. Wilson tossed his shovel down, swept her into his arms, and declared whiskey for all when he was done showering her with kisses. She giggled, swatting him aside. With a curious look at Collins she said, “Ta other girls ‘er on their way.”

Collins bade her good morning. The other boys sat on snow mounds, rubbing their hands together and griping about the cold, while he shoveled around the Wilson property. Although Mr. Wilson had dug them out for the most part, there was still enough snow that he could keep busy. He dug until his fingers seemed frozen, curled and rigid over the shovel handle. Prying them away and flexing them, he grimaced before bending down again, but was interrupted by the lilting voices of girls carrying hot thermoses of soup and flasks of whiskey--and the accompanying whistles of the boys.

He only vaguely registered the girl at his shoulder when he almost hit her with his shovel. After a flurry of sincere yet flustered apologies on his part and amusement on her part, they settled into a moment of awkward silence. She was gorgeous, with long raven-black hair framing a pale, heart-shaped face. Her green eyes were familiar enough that Collins cocked his head and stared.

“Oh, we haven’t met,” she told him. “I’m Ann Wilson.” Instead of offering her cheeks to be kissed, she stuck out a thermos.

He took it gratefully, dropping his shovel to the ground to avoid any further incidents. “The bookkeeper’s daughter?”

“Aye, that’s the one. My maw sent me over to you because you don’t have a bird fer yerself.”

Collins coughed. “Ah, well. Am jus’ home from the war, you see.”

“Three months isn’t _jus’_ , though, is it?”

“S’pose not, no.” Collins squinted against the sunlight and gave her a half-smile, a little lost for words and feeling cornered. “It was nice to meet you, Ann.”

She took the dismissal gracefully, nodding once, her black tresses tumbling like waves about her head. “You can jus’ give that ta my da when yer done,” she offered at the same moment he said, “I’ll get this back to you later.” There was another strange pause, another small giggle from the girl.

Ann flattened her skirt, tucked her hair behind her ears. “Whatever you prefer, Mr. Collins,” she replied shyly. Then she marched back to her front door, and Collins spared not another glance her way.

He did, however, peer suspiciously over at the Wilson parents. They were deep in conference, sneaking looks at their daughter and at Collins. Collins stifled a groan. The villagers had always understood or excused his lack of courtship before the war--first it was his youth, then his meticulous nature, then his commitment to the cause--but now it seemed his time was up. There would be fathers practically throwing their daughters at him. Collins looked up at the cloudy sky. He didn’t know how to tell them that he’d left his heart with a dead pilot on the sands of Dunkirk.

"Won’t ya eat your soup? My youngest made it.” Collins started; he hadn’t noticed the man’s approach, as lost as he was in his memories. Mr. Wilson’s smile was half mischief, half hope. When Collins didn’t answer, the old man prompted, “Ann. I believe you’re acquainted.”

Unable to help it, Collins chuckled. “Aye, Mr. Wilson, we are.” After a pause he added, “She’s lovely,” because he’d been raised to always be polite. He could feel Mr. Wilson’s eyes on him, scrutinizing through thin-framed glasses, scheming. So he unscrewed his thermos cap and crouched, draining it in a few gulps like any soldier. It burned his throat and he barely tasted it, but it warmed him.

Mr. Wilson was awaiting a verdict. Collins made some generic noise of approval, knowing civilians wouldn’t really understand how _any_ food was good food now. And Mr. Wilson seemed satisfied, clapping Collins on the back before taking the thermos back to his wife.

Collins breathed in the crisp air and rolled his shoulders. He could no longer feel his toes. It had been three hours already; it would be dark before 17:00. Snow fell relentlessly, white flakes sticking in every spot he had already cleared. They’d be pulling the tractors out soon enough, at least once the men unburied the sheds and paths to the roads. As if on cue, he saw a group heading to the nearest barn, slung his shovel over his shoulder, and joined them.

The village was completely dug out in four hours’ time. By then, the children had run home, tired and sore, and the oldest among the men had retired for cards and more whiskey. The snow was slowing, enough that everyone felt comfortable putting the tractors back for the day. At the very least, the cars could make it out; one family had already left to join their relatives for a short holiday. Collins was content to stay in Oxton. He declined an invitation to join the men for drinks at the pub and walked home, wanting nothing more than a long soak and a hot toddy in his own home.

Yet when he finally trudged up the stairs, stripped, and collapsed into his bed, sleep found him instantly.

 

_There’s nothing as soothing as the purr of a spitfire engine. There’s nothing as jarring as the first time he hears rounds firing from his plane’s four machine guns. He remembers those clearer than even the rush of the wind. And he’s surrounded by it now, bullet after bullet after bullet, but his spitfire is chasing him. Collins is running, gasping, tripping. When he falls, he hits water._

_He swims, and then he drowns, and then he’s sitting at the bottom of the ocean for what seems like hours. When his breath leaves his lungs, he washes up on the shores of France._

_Dunkirk meets him with German soldiers on its shores. They push him, break his fingers with their boots. They are all wearing masks, and for some reason, he’s begging for them to remove those coverings. Their unmasking becomes more important than any end to his pain._

_So they do, and there’s Farrier. Except it’s not really him; it’s a ghost, and then it’s a corpse. Farrier’s body hits the ground next to Collins, and the Germans tie that dead weight to the living pilot and drag them both into a hole. And they bury him alive next to the man he loved._

 

Collins woke feeling nauseous and numb. He ran to the bathroom as soon as his feet hit the floor, ignoring the cold wood on his bare feet, and retched into the sink. His empty stomach produced nothing but bile; for a long time, the minutes dragging on as the room swam around him, he just breathed harshly and coughed when he could. When the world finally settled and his head stopped pounding, Collins turned the faucet on and stuck his head under it. He let the freezing water soak his hair and his face until he couldn’t feel his skin.

Turning the water off, Collins opened his eyes. He stood slowly and grabbed a towel to dry his hair. Once he was able to change into clothes and not drip water all over them, Collins decided he needed one very specific thing: a cigarette.

He didn’t have any left in his room. However, he knew his grandfather kept some in the pantry, and if that didn’t work, he could always find his grandmother’s Lucky Strikes tucked away in a cabinet in the living room.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to go looking for those. His grandfather’s cartons were stacked neatly in the pantry, right next to the dried meat, and Collins grabbed one to take to his room. It wasn’t yet 2 AM; if he could calm down, he could try to fall back asleep for a few hours at least.

Collins’ RAF jacket hung on the back of his door, not on a hanger but just a simple hook, and he patted it down when he reached it, feeling for his lighter. Fishing it out of the right pocket, Collins flicked it open and closed as he turned and walked back over to his bed. When he sat, he took an unused cigarette from the carton and stuck it between his lips, bending his neck forward to touch the tip to the lighter’s flame. It lit immediately, and Collins breathed in gratefully. He set the lighter down on his nightable and leaned his shoulders back against the headboard.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lip as he remembered the last time he’d smoked in his bed. Most of the time anyone had to smoke during the war was outside, between flights, between training. And smoking in the pilot's quarters was a social thing, done in a circle while men shared dirty pictures and their plans for after the war. But one night, sometime in May--Collins remembered it being just days before Operation Dynamo, just days before he’d lost _him_ \--it had been a quiet night. There were no bets or pinup girls or aspirations to be had. Desires, though, there had been plenty of those. He had been sitting up in his bunk, for what reason he couldn’t recall, when Farrier had walked over and sat at the foot of his bed. Collins _did_ recall distinctly the feel of Farrier’s fingers brushing against his when he’d shared his cigarette. _My last one_ , Farrier had said, like it was the most practical thing in the world to share his _last_ cigarette. Collins had taken a drag without ever taking his eyes off of Farrier. And then he’d handed it back, and Farrier had finished it, and that had been that.

Collins put out his cigarette in the ashtray and closed his eyes, content enough now that he had stopped shaking. Old heartache, he reasoned, was best dealt with with nicotine and some more sleep.

The next time he woke up, Collins was much slower out of his bed. Someone was calling his name, and it took him longer than he liked to register that it was his grandmother. He followed the sound of her voice out to the living room, where she held the phone in one hand and a ball of yarn in the other. Yawning, he spared a glance to the loveseat, where her knitting materials sat already turning themselves into winter wear.

“The phone for you,” she told Collins, urging it into his hands. He took it, eyebrows arched in confusion, but thanked her all the same.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Finlay Collins?” a woman’s voice asked.

Collins fought the urge to add his rank, instead simply replying, “Aye. Who am I speaking to?”

She did not give her name. “Sir, I am a nurse at Leeds Infirmary. We have a patient here who has asked for you by name, sir, he says he knows you from the war, and we’ve gone to some trouble to locate you, so I do hope you’re acquainted.” She laughed slightly, as if Collins was not right back in the sky, his stomach flipping faster than his spitfire, its engine dictating the speed of his heart. He had lost so many friends--some very close to him--and the thought of having even one of them returned to him... As the rush of blood in his ears grew almost deafening, Collins realized the nurse was still speaking to him. He gulped and brought the phone back to his ear. “Are you there, sir? Do you know this man?”

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me; could you repeat his name, ma’am? I couldn’t hear.”

“Of course. His name is Thomas Farrier.”

 


	2. The Abandoned Solider

_I’ve never seen something this blue_ , Farrier had said when they put on their uniforms the first time. _Well, maybe except for your eyes_.

Collins pulled at his blazer as if it didn’t already fit perfectly, uncomfortable and needing something to occupy him on his walk along Great George Street. The General Infirmary at Leeds loomed in the distance, red brick a striking contrast to the grey of the day, of the city. It was a damp morning. The rain had started early but there wasn’t a storm in sight. Instead, Leeds was left with a cold drizzle, not enough to form puddles for the kids to play in and not enough to prevent work and errands. It was decidedly miserable.

Collins could not figure out exactly how he felt, although he far from miserable. There was something squeezing his chest so tight he could barely breathe. Every so often a ridiculous smile would cross his face, but then it would turn into a scowl just as quickly. His heart told him it was Farrier, that Farrier had come back. His head, in a voice entirely reminiscent of his commanding officer’s, told him not to be such a gullible fool.

It was difficult to keep any smile, no matter how foolish, on his face once he entered the infirmary. Despite the men and women thanking him for his bravery, service, and sacrifice, he could not offer them cheerfulness or comfort. Around him in more beds than he could count laid good men, some broken shells of who they once had been. The ones who could talk whispered, and the ones who couldn’t just stared, perhaps at Collins, perhaps at nothing at all. Some men saluted when Collins passed them, and he did his best not to react to the missing fingers and hands they used. He stuffed his own undamaged fists in his pockets. He wondered what pieces of Farrier were missing, and the images that came to mind left him in a cold sweat as he followed the signs to the nurse’s station.

When he found it, he also found a harried, tired-looking woman with her curls falling to ruins over her forehead. Upon seeing him she smiled politely, but that warmth could not overcome the exhaustion and sorrow in her eyes. “Erm, I’m looking for a patient,” Collins said.

She didn’t look up from her charts. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, honey.”

“Right.” The name seemed stuck in his throat. If he spoke it aloud, the dream might crumble. He might wake up alone in his grandparent’s cottage. Collins had been in the Royal Air Force, had taken gunfire while flying thousands of feet above water that went thousands of feet deep, and a damn name was what did him in in the end.

“Sir?”

“Thomas Farrier,” he finally gasped out, like he’d been punched in the gut. “I’m here for Thomas Farrier.”

Everything about her face brightened. She stood and rushed around the desk, asking, “You’re Fin, then?”

“I’m sorry?” He hadn’t been called Fin since the war, when he was up in the air every day and Farrier had taken to shortening his name.

“Right, sorry love, he did say no one else calls you that. You can just follow me then.”

So Farrier could talk. Collins couldn’t tell if that made him less nervous or not, and he still couldn’t shake the nerves as he followed the nurse past more beds and through a couple doors. His heart was a little fishing boat thrown into a tsunami, but his mouth was so dry that he thought a thousand gallons of water couldn’t help it. So he fixed his eyes on the back of her head and hoped they’d be somewhere soon.

When she did finally stop in front of a numbered door, Collins thought he might be sick. Before knocking, the nurse cast a hesitant smile over her shoulder, her lip quirking until it was fixed into an expression approaching reassuring. “He’s very… quiet today,” she explained, voice soft. “I’m sure he’ll feel better when he sees you, of course, but…” She left it at that, knocking twice before pushing the door open.

The first thing he noticed was the beard. Untamed, dark hair carved a path over his jaw and above his full lips. Collins stared at Farrier’s lips longer than proprietary allowed, but the nurse was watching Farrier, and Farrier was watching the clouds, so no one was watching him trace every line of Farrier’s face like he hadn’t memorized it the day they met. Collins inhaled. He looked away. Then he exhaled, and on that breath he said, “Hello, Farrier.”

Farrier didn’t look at him right away. His whole body seemed to register Collins’ voice at different intervals; first his arm--the one not in a full cast--twitched, followed by his eyes widening, and then his chest heaving, before he finally turned his head. And even then, his eyes blinked rapidly as they tried to comprehend what his ears already had. Collins could not catch the exact moment they did because he was already rushing forward, the spell that had kept him frozen in place broken, because the need to touch Farrier, to make sure he was really there, was overwhelming.

Remembering suddenly that they were not alone, Collins stopped right next to the bed. His whole body burned to close the gap between them. “Won’t you say something?” he asked. Farrier only stared.

“Perhaps, dearie, you could take his hand?” the nurse suggested from by the foot of Farrier’s bed. “It’s possible he doesn’t believe you’re standing there.” When Collins hesitated, she dropped her chin and smiled. “Someone will be in to discharge him in ten minutes. It was nice to meet you.” She closed the door when she left.

He felt like he had run all the way from Oxton. Gritting his teeth, he reached a shaking hand forward and placed it on Farrier’s. Farrier’s eyes met his with a sudden, raw intensity, shock and pain and relief all demanding an audience in Collins’ gaze. He held him tighter.

“You’re alive,” was all Collins could think to say.

“You’re here,” was all Farrier responded. His eyes strayed to where Collins held him fast, fingers pressed over fingers, all hot skin and snow-dried palms. Collins jumped and withdrew his hand. Farrier reached out just as quickly to draw him back, grunting like Collins was a damn fool. “You stay right there,” he ordered. “I’m still making sure you’re real.”

Collins ducked his head; he knew all about that terrible blend of reality and wishful thinking, and how it became so difficult after a while to discern the difference. “I saw you sometimes, too, in my dreams.” His voice shook. Maybe he was saying too much. Maybe he was saying too little.

“Me, I only dream about fire.” There was no sadness in his voice or in his eyes anymore, only emptiness. It chilled Collins’ blood. “I’m always awake when I see you.”

With grief so deep it rooted him to the floor, he realized Farrier still couldn’t--or wouldn’t--trust his own mind. “I’m really here,” Collins told him. He repeated it again, curled his fingers stronger into the other man’s. If he wouldn’t trust his head, Farrier could at least trust Collins. He could at least trust the weight of his hand on his.

“Mm.”

Collins smiled, then he sighed. He supposed it was time to ask what he’d wanted to since he received that phone call. “Farrier, why--” The door banged open, interrupting him, and the previously reserved nurse spoke loudly as she ushered in a man wearing a long white coat. Collins withdrew his hand from Farrier’s, wiped the sweat on his trousers, and turned to greet the doctor.

A tall man with glasses and a weathered face, he introduced himself as Dr. Williams before inquiring, “Air Commodore Collins, is it?”

“Aye. Where do I need to sign?” Collins was eager to hurry away from this sterile, depressing place. He wanted Farrier back in a real house with someone who genuinely cared, not people who were paid to do so, and he wanted Farrier where he could always remind himself that he was _alive._ Somewhere they could be alive together, Collins thought, was where they were headed. There was no better future.

“If you’ll step out into the hall with me for a moment, sir,” the doctor replied.

Collins’ stomach dropped. He glanced back at Farrier, whose mouth was turned down a bit at the corner to show his displeasure. Collins knew he hated being stuck anywhere but inside his spitfire for too long; this place must have worn him down to the bone by now. He took a deep breath. Nodding to Farrier, and then nodding to the doctor, he exited the room. The nurse stayed behind to speak to her patient.

“I can take him, can’t I?” Collins asked fearfully. He had almost asked if he could take him _home._

“Certainly. I simply want you to be aware of his injuries, his... limitations, as it were. You have seen the casts.”

“Yes.”

“His entire left side was damaged in a free fall. He has never told us much about it, though from the injuries he sustained we can ascertain he jumped off of a cliff, and rocks broke his fall as well as the water. His leg fractured in two places, his arm in three, and he broke multiple ribs; he dislocated his shoulder and had a deep penetrative wound in his abdomen that has healed but left a noticeable scar. Remarkably there was very little head trauma beyond a concussion.”

Collins listened with his heart beating out a staccato rhythm. It was difficult to imagine such agony. He wondered how Farrier had pushed through it, and then chastised himself for underestimating him. Farrier could fight a moving train and come out swinging if he needed to. He looked it, too, even under yards of bandages. So he said, “He knows all of this; he’s living it. What can’t you tell me in front of him?”

Dr. Williams cleared his throat. “Once again, it is rare we hear from him to confirm our theories. However, it is my professional assessment, based upon signs of malnourishment, and my colleague’s assessment, based upon signs of psychological distress, that Thomas Farrier was a prisoner of war. He is, to put it plainly, traumatized, and I cannot envision a full recovery anytime in the foreseeable future.”

Collins swallowed, mouth dry, and looked back into the room. Farrier was actively engaged in arguing the necessity of a wheelchair; eventually, he surrendered to the very persistent nurse and let her help him into it. His expression was stuck between a scowl and a smile--the scowl for the chair, the smile for the nurse. She laughed at him.

Giving his attention back to Dr. Williamson, Collins fought a grin and settled for a reassuring nod. “My granda’s squadron was captured. They were rescued after some weeks, but I don’t think his mind left that place totally. I do my best for him.”

“Is that why he asked us to find you specifically?”

Collins’ chest went tight. He couldn’t tell if the doctor was suggesting something, or if he was genuinely curious, and that feeling of uncertainty was terrifying. “Could be,” he answered neutrally, entirely convinced it was not near the truth.

Dr. Williamson cleared his throat, satisfied with the answer. “Well, if you will sign here to indicate you’ve received all relevant information, and here,” he flipped the page and pointed, “Mr. Farrier is free to go. His physical injuries should be fully healed within the next two months if he doesn’t overextend himself. See to it that he doesn’t.”

‘I don’t think I’ll be able to stop him from doing anything’ was what he wanted to say. Instead, taking the pen he was offered, Collins signed where he was meant to and remained silent. They shook hands, and then Dr. Williamson left to attend to his other patients. Collins wondered how many of them would ever leave this place, or how many of them even had a home to return to, and shook himself. He only had one man to worry about.

That man was attempting to wheel himself out of his room, heedless of the nurse’s impatient insistence that he find some help, and failing rather spectacularly. While she used words, Farrier only used the furrowing of his brows and his one capable arm to debate. She wouldn’t touch the chair without his consent. Collins found it endearing, thinking of her having to put up with Farrier every day. Wondering how quickly she had adjusted to his stubbornness, he stepped into the room, crossed his arms, and considered him. “Let me,” he reasoned. After a few more grunts and admirable attempts, Farrier did.

He had one foot already in the door when he paused to look back at the nurse. “Thank you… for taking care of him.” _For finding me_. He didn’t need to say it aloud for her to know. She smiled, but it was a sad sort of smile, where the light of it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Collins turned away.

Collins allowed Farrier to make the stupid decision and forgo the wheelchair during the four-hour train from Leeds to the Edinburgh Waverley Station. He folded and stowed the chair beneath their table and watched Farrier stretch himself, wincing, across his seat. It was not long before he was asleep. With his head stuffed between the window and the seat-back, his arms crossed over his chest, and a crease between his eyebrows, Farrier looked the same as he had every night on base. He was still on edge, stiff and waiting for a call to the air for battle. Perhaps now he waited for a German soldier to wake him for a beating. Collins curled his lip at the thought. Then he spent the remainder of the ride watching Farrier’s chest rise and fall.

After that, another train took them to Low, where Mr. Wilson picked them up and drove them the remaining time to Oxton. Mr. Wilson did not force small talk, for which Collins was grateful, and just introduced himself and thanked Farrier for ‘keeping their boy Finlay safe out there.’ Collins spent most of that journey staring out the window.

Oxton was bathed in darkness when they reached it, snowy streetlamps and Mr. Wilson’s headlights providing only an eerie yellow glow to see by. Collins watched men load their shovels into carts, having just finished another day’s worth of unburying the small village. He felt guilty for leaving them. But then he looked at Farrier--eyes wide like it was the first time he was seeing the world--and decided he would choose him again in a heartbeat.

Mr. Wilson pulled up as close as he could to Collins’ cottage when they arrived. As they went inside, Farrier accomplished as much as he could on his own before admitting he needed Collins. Collins, grinning, made no comment as he listened to the other man curse his way into the house. “Thankye, Mr. Wilson!” he called over his shoulder before he shut the door.

Immediately, he was surrounded by the warmth and comfort of home. It was in the small things: the crackling fire, the scent of his grandmother’s perfume, his grandfather’s boots by the door. Collins hung his coat in the closet, then took Farrier’s and did the same. He noted longingly the way their coats pressed together side-by-side and how they fit so perfectly sleeve-to-sleeve; the sight only made this feel more like home. Blush spreading over his face, he turned away and cleared his throat. “Gran,” he called as he pushed Farrier further inward, “do you need help?”

“Nonsense.” The Gaelic word turned Farrier’s ear toward its source. Collins leaned low over the chair, closer than he would in any public setting, to translate. “You boys had a long journey.” Lighting the candle that stood in the middle of the table, Carstaine asked, “Won’t you have dinner? I know you’re tired, but it would be a shame to waste all this food.”

Farrier glanced around the room. “Granda isn’t eating?”

“He went to bed, dear--his heart.” She patted her chest where her heart was, though whether it was to clarify to Farrier what was happening or comfort herself, Collins did not know.

Collins translated again for Farrier, who grunted as soon as Collins mentioned food. “I’ve not eaten anything but hospital food for five months. Of course I’ll eat.”

Laughing, Collins pushed Farrier’s chair to the table and then went to wash his hands. When he returned, Carstaine had her head bowed in prayer. Though she spoke quietly, Collins could make out some of her words as he took his seat, and he grinned. “She’s praying for you,” he told Farrier. Farrier looked distinctly unnerved by the news.

“For your recovery,” Collins clarified, confused by Farrier’s suddenly defensive posture. “She doesn’t expect you to pray, too.” Farrier met his gaze and softened a little, letting the tension out of his neck and shoulders. He scratched at his beard.

“I’ve had people pray for me before. Didn’t like their reasons.”

“I can ask her not to.”

“No. No, don’t do that.” He smiled a little. “But thank you.”

Once she concluded her prayer, they ate. Collins had not realized how hungry he’d been until after taking his first bite of bread, and then he practically inhaled his first and second helpings almost as quickly as Farrier. When he finished he sat back, warm and contented. His grandmother cleared their plates and brought tea before he could even offer to help. As she learned how Farrier liked it--unexpectedly sweet, with plenty of milk and sugar--she explained that she had made up an extra bed in Collins’ room, and that she had set out some pajamas she hoped would fit him.

Heading to his room as soon as he finished his tea, he examined the set while waiting for Farrier. Collins didn’t know where she had found them. They weren’t his, and he was glad they weren’t, because he didn’t know what he would have done if he had seen Farrier wearing his clothes. He imagined it would have been incredibly foolish.

“Your grandmother brought in this whole bed then?” was his first question when he entered Collins’ room.

Collins chuckled. “No, she had help.” He glanced at the bed; it was a worn mattress situated on a rusting metal frame, probably something from a neighbor’s storage. “You could open any door to this house and the village would come running.”

Farrier made a sound that lived between a laugh and a hum. It was all affection and amusement, and it sent a pleasant warmth straight to Collins’ heart. Hoping to surprise him, he tossed Farrier’s new pajamas at him and chuckled when they were caught easily in midair by his good arm. “Keep trying,” Farrier teased. It had been a bet in the Air Force, to try to surprise the ever-vigilant Thomas Farrier. No one had ever succeeded, though Collins had come close on some very memorable occasions, and now it was his ongoing mission. That attempt had been a reminder. Collins beamed at how the memory and accompanying fondness shone within Farrier’s eyes.

Gesturing toward the clothing, and then to Farrier’s abundant casts, Collins asked, “Do you need help?”

Farrier looked at himself as if he was noticing his immobility for the first time. He ran his free fingers over the pajamas, frowning like they were the cause of his troubles. “Can I rip them?”

Collins considered. Then, “I suppose so.”

“Then I can manage.”

Swallowing the swell of disappointment he felt, Collins nodded, left his room, and closed the door for privacy. Each time he heard fabric ripping he hoped his grandmother wouldn’t come to inspect and reveal to Collins that they held some massive importance to her family. While he waited, he readied himself for bed, changing in the bathroom.

Thankfully no such disturbance came before Farrier was calling Collins back into his room. The sight would have been comical if Collins could ignore that Farrier’s limbs were in such shape because of his time as a prisoner; Farrier had ripped the entire left trouser leg off, and he’d torn the seams of the left arm to better fit. He’d even managed to close all the buttons, to Collins’ complete dismay. The clothes he’d worn from the hospital--ill-fitting donations--lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Collins took them, folded them neatly, and placed them on his bedside table, which sat in the no man’s land between his and Farrier’s beds.

While Collins prepared their room, Farrier raged a mostly-silent war with his wheelchair. It was physically impossible for him to get into bed by himself while seated and with only one fully functional side of his body, but he was trying to defy this truth. Collins watched him awhile, allowed him his pride, before intervening. “Farrier,” was all he said, and Farrier knew. He sighed and settled back into the wheelchair.

Collins knelt and beckoned for Farrier to wrap his arms around his shoulders. They stood together, all of Farrier’s weight supported by Collins and only his right foot touching the floor. Farrier grunted. Collins slid the other man carefully onto the mattress, minding anything broken. His grandmother had piled as many pillows at its end as there were people in Oxton. Collins distributed them to evenly prop up Farrier’s head, arm, and leg.

Farrier liked to sleep with a single blanket that didn’t cover his feet. Collins left it like so before turning off the lights and sliding into his own bed. There were too many questions in his head, and they spilled out in waves:

“Do you need anything else? Are you warm enough? Will you want breakfast?,” and so on.

“Fin.”

“Hm?” Collins loved the way his nickname sounded in Farrier’s mouth and wished he would say it again.

He didn’t. “Go to sleep, yeah?”

Collins rolled over so that, if the lights had been on, he would have been able to see Farrier’s face. And then he closed his eyes.

 


	3. A Comfortable Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are so grateful for the response to this fic and truly, deeply appreciate every one of you who has taken the time to leave kudos or comment. We plan to get around to answer most of the comments soon--some of them have been overwhelming (in a good way!) and we can't even begin to express how incredibly touched we are. Thank you. We hope you enjoy this next chapter.

One of Collins’ favorite things about living in Oxton was the morning. At five, it arrived with quiet winds and sweet birdsong; the hazy light of the dawn, sunrise still an hour off, and the stillness of his house. Content to spare a few moments for warmth, he would often keep his eyes closed and simply breathe. It was calm, peaceful.

This was not one of those mornings.

Collins woke to Gaelic cursing interrupted by Gaelic words of comfort, which, when they lulled, left room for English bargaining. He sprang out of bed, heart pounding. Farrier was absent from the room. Leaving the bed unmade, Collins rushed immediately to the living room, where the commotion was loudest. When he heard the shotgun’s action, he cleared his throat, but when he saw the weapon pointed at Farrier, he froze.

Farrier, though wary, seemed rather more relaxed than Collins expected given his circumstances. His hands raised in surrender were his only tell. They shook violently, even though his voice was calm and reassuring. “Sir, I’ve just come from hospital. I can’t even lift my leg, much less fight you.”

“You’re here to spy!” Iain shouted. He waved the shotgun again. Farrier followed its movement with his eyes. Raw anger pulsed in his chest, constricting his lungs and throat. It was not directed at his grandfather, but at himself--if he had just woken earlier, if he had just warned Farrier not to go gliding around the house like some ghost--there wouldn’t be a shell-shocked veteran aiming a deadly weapon at the man he loved.

But the anger pushed the fear down enough that he swallowed his guilt and pleaded, “Look at him, Granda!” Iain and Carstaine turned to their grandson. He stepped forward slowly until he could grasp the gun. His grandfather resisted, then sighed and let it go. “Farrier’s a friend, yeah? A good friend.”

Iain grumbled something about Collins trusting too many people. Carstaine shushed him. She spared a glance for Collins, her mouth twisted in an apologetic frown, before ushering her husband from the room. Farrier relaxed, exhaled, and then rotated his chair to face Collins once Carstaine and Iain had gone to the kitchen. “That was familiar,” he said.

Collins huffed. “They never woke us with guns pointed at our heads,” he argued. He exhaled strongly again, playing at incredulity, but really hoping it would stop his voice from wavering.

“I didn’t mean at the base.” Farrier’s face was guarded.

Deciding not to press, Collins gripped the chair’s handles and leaned over Farrier’s back. “You shouldn’t be wheeling around by yourself,” he chastised him. Then, brighter, he asked, “How the hell did you get out of my room without me noticing?”

Farrier chuckled. “I was careful.”

“You were _sneaky_ ,” Collins replied good-naturedly. He pushed Farrier into the dining room, continuing, “No wonder Granda thought you were a spy.”

Farrier grunted like it was a fair point. Grinning, Collins pushed him to his place at the table and then took his own across from him. Carstaine brought them tea. She yawned as she set down the tray, having been woken too early by the disturbance between her guest and husband. Twenty minutes later she was carrying to them a breakfast fit for kings, muttering how Farrier surely hadn’t been fed properly in Leeds but would be now if she had any say in it. Collins smiled.

Farrier seemed guilty as he watched her wait upon him. “Ma’am, I--”

“Tell him not to worry, dear,” she interrupted. Collins translated as she went on. “Iain’s the one with an apology to give.” Carstaine fixed them more tea, doling out generous amounts of sugar in each cup, and then sat to Collins’ left. “He’s not been himself since he came home.”

Farrier seemed as if he might respond then, narrowing his eyes and opening his lips slightly before sipping his tea instead. In the RAF, Collins would have knocked his elbow against Farrier’s ribs and stared him down until he spoke his mind. Now, though, he was forced to glare at him over the teacup and smile innocently at his grandmother. Farrier remained purposefully oblivious. He tapped one finger against the arm of his wheelchair and kept his attention on the kitchen window over Collins’ shoulders; a light rain had started falling, splashing in patterns against the glass and morphing the reflections into shapeless blobs of color. He started until Collins saw his eyes unfocus, and then blinked and brought his attention back to to the table. Collins finished his tea.

“I’d like to know what I can do,” Farrier finally murmured, quietly enough that Collins had to lean forward to hear him. Farrier cleared his throat. “What can I do to be useful here?”

Collins fought the urge to reach across the space between them--the table, cracked and worn, seemed too large a distance suddenly--and touch Farrier’s face. He wanted to reassure him with more than words. But words were still all he offered in that moment.

“You don’t have to do anything. Your job here is to heal, innit?”

Farrier sighed. “I didn’t leave hospital to come to another. That’s not why I asked for you.”

“Why _did_ you ask for me?”

Farrier glanced at Collins’ grandfather, who was still watching him suspiciously while he sipped his tea. Collins could practically see him changing his answer, and sat his empty cup back on the table, afraid he would shatter it out of sheer frustration. Some part of him wished Farrier would just say it-- _because I was in love with you_ \--while the rest of him choked down another swell of fear and waited for the reinvented reason. Meeting Collins’ eyes again, Farrier blinked. “I knew you would come for me.”

Closer to the truth that Collins thought it would be, Farrier’s answer shocked him enough that his grandmother had to politely tap his shoulder before he explained everything that had just been said. She nodded, a smile pulling at her lips, and reached across the table to pat Farrier’s scarred, bandaged hand. His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he did not pull his hand from her grip.

She used her other hand to push her husband’s elbow. Some tea spilled over the rim of his glass onto his hand, and he sat it down, eyes wide with mock horror. Carstaine giggled a little and he grinned. “She’s a little devil, I tell you,” he declared to Farrier, but there was nothing but love in his voice. Collins laughed at them, a quick bark of joy that faded into nothing when he noticed Farrier staring at him. He bit his lip. Farrier looked away.

Collins realized his grandfather was still talking. He was lost in the story of how he and Carstaine had met, a story Collins had heard no less than a thousand times, and Farrier was nodding even though he had likely missed the start of it as well. He concluded it with, “And she still keeps me in line today,” leading into a genuine, albeit overdue, apology to Farrier. It was accepted gratefully--which was to say with a slight nod and a hum that could have been considered gruff to some.

Iain rubbed his hands together happily. And then he asked Farrier abruptly,  “So you taught my boy to fight?” Placing his palms flat on the table, he studied Farrier for the first time as a friend and a pilot rather than an enemy and a spy.

“Yes, sir. But he was a fine pilot before we met.”

Though he was proud of his flying, Collins was uninterested in being the center of the conversation, so he supplied, “Well, Granda taught me to fly.”

Flattered, Iain fought between remaining professional like the officer he was, or full of pride like the grandfather he was. Collins felt a small blush and swiped a hand through his hair to hide his face for a moment. Now Iain and Farrier were both looking at Collins, and Collins straightened a little in his chair. “Only pilots in the family now, us three.”

“Only three left,” Iain corrected, and then fell silent. The cold crept into the room while Farrier waited for clarification that neither Collins nor his grandfather could bring themselves to offer.

It was not long before Iain excused himself to get more food. Carstaine, oblivious, tilted her chin up so her husband could kiss her forehead on his way out of his chair. She smoothed her nightgown down once he turned away, blinking at Collins. “Did he apologize to your nice friend here?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.” She busied herself refilling teacups for a moment once Iain returned, and then busied herself asking so many questions that Collins had to ask her to slow down. The sleepiness was gone from her voice, replaced with genuine, overzealous interest. Carstaine adored gathering as many details as possible to mull over while she knitted later. “How did you two meet? Were you stationed together? Did you get along right away? Where is he from? Did you fly everywhere together?”  

“How’s one at a time, grandma, yeah?” He couldn’t keep the laughter from his voice. And he knew he was blushing again, a redness in his cheeks that he couldn’t blame on any chill. Farrier cleared his throat. Collins looked at his wide, confused eyes and summarized his grandmother’s words with, “She’s curious about us.”

Farrier stiffened. It was a subtle change, one Collins had only learned to pick up after a year of watching him; Farrier was always so still, but any discomfort caused his eyes to harden and his shoulders to push in as if he was protecting himself. Collins, realizing his mistake, spoke in English and trusted Iain to translate. “Farrier was my superior officer. He picked me and the other new pilots up at the train station my--er, our--first day and showed us around, got us settled. He was in charge of my training. Yes, we got on well immediately, Gran. We ended up in the same squadron and flew together until…”

_Until ‘Come on, Farrier’ became a plea into the pillow for the man to return from that damn beach. Until the only thing Collins saw behind his eyes was the wreckage of a spitfire in the ocean. Until he’d given up hope and come home pretending to be whole._

“We both went down in Dunkirk,” Collins finished, voice growing quieter with each word. “I was the only one to make it home.”

Carstaine watched the worry lines on Collins’ forehead, deepening as his eyebrows furrowed together. She watched Farrier, still stiff, curl his fingers into a fist and then uncurl them, over and over until his knuckles were white. She reached over to smooth her thumb over Collins’ face. “Until now.”

“Until now,” Collins echoed, shaking himself out of the memory.

Farrier seemed relieved as well, releasing a barely audible breath. He gulped down the last of his tea before nodding at Collins. Collins nodded back. Their eyes were locked together, sharing words, memories, fears. Collins wanted to rush outside and scream to the world that Farrier was fearless, that he was a hero, that he was alive and safe and _home_. He settled for repeating his grandmother’s words again. “Until now.”

Farrier leaned back in his wheelchair and regarded Collins. “I wasn’t sure you’d made it out.” He switched his gaze to Iain. “He’s a survivor, your grandson.”

“Don’ I know it!” Iain yelled, his proud-grandfather side beating out his professional one as he slapped Collins’ shoulder.

Collins fought to keep his face neutral despite his pounding heart. “It was no trouble. There was a boat that picked me up after I’d climbed out.” Collins was a good liar; he’d been the kid with a knack for trouble and then the teen who could only find love if he snuck away late at night for it. Lying to Farrier turned his stomach, but he couldn’t bear to let Farrier think he’d left Collins to die.

The answer seemed to satisfy Farrier enough that he relaxed and finished eating. Once sated, they pushed away their plates and politely refused Carstaine’s offerings of third and fourth helpings. She was not content with this.

“You should eat more. You have so much to do today.”

Collins cocked his head. “Do I?”

Piling more food onto Collins’ plate, Carstaine nodded. “The storm collapsed part of the Wilson’s shed. You’re going to help them fix it.”

Collins suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He felt like he ought to mark the date on a calendar; Friday, January fourth, the day the village decided it was time he married. If it were springtime, Carstaine would have sent him over with flowers. Now, however, she could only send well-wishes with her reluctant grandson. Her excitement was almost tangible.

“I… had plans?” Collins protested lamely. He looked to Farrier for support, but Farrier was struggling to hide his laughter behind yet another cup of tea.

“Nonsense,” Carstaine replied, and her tone meant her decision was final.

Iain was undoubtedly on his wife’s side. Married before his deployment, he’d never understood why Collins refused to keep that tradition alive. His father and mother had done the same. Having broken the pattern, Collins supposed Carstaine was set on mending it as best she could.

Farrier knew that bit of family history. Collins could see him connecting Carstaine’s insistence with conversations shared over cigarettes and drunken rants on leave. He hummed, and then Carstaine’s sharp eyes fixated on him. “Are you married?” she inquired. It was a righteous sound, one that turned sour with disapproval in a little _tsk_ when Collins translated and Farrier gave a firm, “No.” Collins’ heart skipped a beat when the answer was directed at him.

“Best not waste any time,” Iain suggested. He winked, and Collins groaned.

Farrier locked his eyes on Collins.

A shiver ran up Collins’ spine. He coughed, and then turned to his laughing grandfather. “Am I meant to go there now?”

Conferring with Carstaine, Iain added a few sentences about how _eager_ Collins was to assist the family in their troubles, which made his wife’s face brighten and his grandson’s redden. “Yes,” Iain finally answered, looking downright proud of himself.

Farrier’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “I’ve no clothes for a wedding, mate.”

Collins feigned outrage when he realized his lack of allies in this battle. Mouth agape, eyes wide, he fixed a glare on his friend. At least Farrier was enjoying himself. That was worth one hundred humiliations at the prying hands of his grandparents.

Iain guffawed. “I like this one,” he said. He recounted the joke to Carstaine, who rewarded Farrier with another piece of toast.

“You had a shotgun pointed at him this morning, Granda.”

He shrugged.

 _I’d take the shotgun over this_ , Collins thought as he stood, looking to Farrier in another effort to gain his support. Farrier hid a half-smile behind a bite of toast and said nothing more. Sensing the stern gaze of his grandmother, Collins knew their objections would be worthless anyway. So he kissed Carstaine’s cheeks, tipped his chin at Iain, and laid his hand on Farrier’s shoulder. “Don’t let Gran fuss over you too much. She likes to take care of people.”

In a moment of rare reflection, Iain added solemnly, “I don’ deserve her.”

“Course you do, Granda.” Collins squeezed Farrier’s shoulder before heading to the closet. He took his time buttoning his coat, wrapping his scarf around his neck afterwards and tying his boots so slowly that Carstaine appeared in the opening between the dining room and entryway to scold him. When she returned a second time--brandishing a wooden spoon--he knew he had delayed his departure as long as possible. With a sigh he left, letting the door swing shut harder than usual so that his grandmother could hear him go.

Collins felt guilty. Selfishness did not suit him; barring the rather obvious attempts on his family’s part at matchmaking, Collins should never have even _considered_ refusing to give aide to a neighbor in need. His feet carried him to the Wilson barn even as his mind strayed back home, wondering what line of questioning Farrier would be subject to now that he was away. He hoped they would just let him rest.

Mr. Wilson was already at work when Collins approached. He reached out to place a steadying hand on the man’s ladder. It was ancient and should have been replaced years ago, but Mr. Wilson had a habit of holding onto things. The ladder also only belonged indoors; Mr. Wilson used it to reach the top shelves of his bookshelves and Mrs. Wilson, who made her own preserves, used it to stack her jars during winter. Those were all kept in the shed, which had a massive hole in its roof that Mr. Wilson was hammering at to no avail.

“Collins, my boy!” Mr. Wilson waved, causing the ladder to sway more. Collins grimaced and held fast.

“Do you need help, Mr. Wilson?”

“Ah, no doubt I do, son. Have you had your breakfast? The wife’s jus’ opened a jar of the raspberry.” He winked, remembering it was Collins’ favorite.

“I have, thank you. Won’t you let me do that?” Mr. Wilson’s fumbling attempts at clearing the snow and replacing the roof tiles with wood were inspiring, but Collins knew they couldn’t afford to let that sloppy of a repair be their only protection from any oncoming storms. The bookkeeper had no reservations in recognizing his own shortcomings, either. In an instant he was on the ground, and then Collins took his place.

The job took him hours. A light snowfall began while he was dismantling Mr. Wilson’s work, so he spent too much time brushing off new piles and breaking old ice. Then they ran out of nails, and then there were offers of tea and a break that Collins did not take. Once he completed the roof, Mrs. Wilson came out to sweep the shed before gifting Collins with a couple jars of marmalade.

“Ann’s come down with a wee fever,” she lamented as she handed him a bag. “My poor lamb wanted to say hello, but I refused--doctor’s orders, you see.” She pressed her hand over her heart. “Oh, she was ever so distraught.”

“Please give her my best.” He’d thought the statement was neutral enough, but Mrs. Wilson beamed like she’d just watched him ask Ann’s father’s blessing. Helpless to their scheming, Collins could only kiss Mrs. Wilson’s cheek, thank her for the marmalade, and bid her and her husband a hasty farewell.

Collins had lost track of time. His stomach growled loudly as he walked, and he slowly realized the darkness was not only from the storm, but because the sun had set. The thought of a few slices of toast with Mrs. Wilson’s preserves by the fire quickened his pace. Soon, thankfully, he was opening the door, his coat already in his hands and ready to be hung to dry. He started to call for his grandmother but stopped when he noticed his grandfather, heavy eyelids fighting sleep for conversation. Farrier sat a few feet away in his wheelchair, nodding gently in response to whatever Iain had said before Collins walked in. The room was heavy with companionable silence, something Farrier had always been good at; on base, most of the other pilots thought he was either antisocial or slow. Collins knew he just preferred to speak when it was necessary over mindlessly filling quiet space. He made his words count.

 _He’s on me_.

 _I’m on him_.

Collins smiled. _I’ll keep you safe_ , it had meant. _I won’t leave you_.

And he hadn’t. But Collins--Collins had left him on that beach in France, even though there was no guarantee Farrier would make it off. He’d written to every officer and rang every base he could for three days after Dynamo, always asking the same question: _Did any of your ships have an RAF pilot as a passenger?_ And always with the same answer: _No, only army._ It wasn’t until a Commander Bolton appeared at base to ask after ‘the pilot who saved my life’ and give the news: that he had landed, but in German territory, and they hadn’t seen him again.

He had assumed Farrier was dead, then. Unstoppable in his plane--invincible, if the youngest Aircraftmen’s tales were to be believed--precise, brave, and good-hearted, Farrier was a legend in the RAF. He was impressive in hand-to-hand combat as well, but no man could fight off alone the number of Germans that had surrounded Dunkirk. Collins had held his own funeral for him; a lit candle, placed next to the only photo they had together, had sat by his bed for a single night so as to not cause suspicion.

Collins stared at the flickering fire, remembering that candle and the way his chest had ached after he blew it out. He’d promised himself it didn’t mean he’d given up hope, and had carried that photograph in his back pocket and taped it on his spitfire console whenever he flew. Sometimes he’d woken up thinking Farrier was still there and that he could just reach up and push on the bottom of Farrier’s mattress. Farrier would grunt, roll over, and whisper, _Hey, Fin._

“Hey, Fin,” Farrier whispered.

Iain had succumbed to his exhaustion and was snoring peacefully; Collins placed a blanket over his thin legs before going to sit cross-legged by Farrier. With no one else around, he let himself relax and lean into the wheelchair, his shoulder almost touching Farrier’s knee. He took a deep breath. Farrier did, too, and in a moment his fingertips were pressed to the back of Collins’ neck, just resting there.

“So when’s the wedding?” Farrier inquired, tugging at the hair on the back of Collins’ head playfully. Collins made a noise that should have been a laugh but shaped itself into a strangled sob at the last second, and he hung his head, ashamed.

Farrier moved his hand to cup Collins’ cheek. He stroked his thumb over his wind-bitten skin, asking without a word what was wrong.

“I should have come back for you.”

“I made my choice,” Farrier countered. “I was never angry with you. You couldn’t have come back, and I’m glad you didn’t.”

“I could have--”

“No,” Farrier insisted, his grip tightening. “There was nothing you could have done.”

Collins turned his face away from Farrier’s hand. “There must have been _something_.” He wanted him to be angry. He wanted him to tell him how disappointed he was, not to comfort him. Evacuations had continued on Dunkirk. He could have convinced his officers to let him fly out again, help the Navy with their efforts on the beach; he could have done anything other than abandon Farrier to the enemy.

Farrier reached for Collins as he stood, trying to pull him back. He winced when the motion stretched his torso and jostled his broken ribs. With a curse, he drew his hand back to hold his side, hissing out a pained breath between his teeth. Collins took the opportunity to step away from him. Without even grabbing a coat, he walked out into the darkness and slammed the door. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and watched his breath puff around his face. He let it rise and disappear, watching until it became indistinct under the streetlamps and constellations, standing on cobblestones and wondering if he should just turn around. But the thought caused his stomach to curl; he couldn’t face Farrier right now, couldn’t face the forgiveness he didn’t deserve. So he walked.

Collins walked without a destination or purpose, but his feet carried him to a place he had been unable to visit since his return home. An old barn, an old field. Both full of memories Collins wasn’t sure he wanted.

There was nothing but sky and snow here. Seeming to stretch out infinitely, the field stopped only once, far in the distance where it collided with the barn. Those brown wood walls were faded, the roof bending inward with the weight of all the ice and snow atop it. Inside of that barn, Collins knew the first plane he’d ever flown sat beneath a sheet, broken, forgotten.

Collins wanted to go that plane, but he was stuck. He looked down at his boots, sunken deep enough that his ankles were covered. Suddenly it felt as if one step would be harder than anything he’d ever done in his life. Chest tight, he collapsed on his back onto the ground, grunting when the snow blustered into his face.

Stars, bright white, peered at him and whispered his mistakes to him. He closed his eyes, yet they persisted. They saw everything. They knew he’d left him.

Before the war, he had usually found peace in this field. He could listen to the wind whistle its way through each blade of grass and let the moon paint pictures in the shadows. Tonight, though, there was little comfort offered. The rolling hills, blanketed in undisturbed snow, reminded him far too much of rolling waves. Collins clenched his jaw and stared at the stars, pleading with them now.

He was freezing. Clothes wet, bones aching, he trailed his fingers over the ground until he created small trenches. When he closed his eyes again, he could feel hands holding his own, a warm body lying next to him. Wanting, with every beat of his heart, for it to be true, he held fast to every image as it emerged in his mind. There were bodies tangled beneath sheets, kisses beside the fire, footprints in the snow leading to places of their own. They flew again, Collins and Farrier. They flew Collins’ first plane, his father’s before and Iain’s before that. There was a smile on Farrier’s face.

Collins stayed there with his fantasies until he was shivering. Then he stood, wrapped his arms around himself, and walked home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, there's now a fic aesthetic and rebloggable link to this on tumblr, both of which can be found on our shared blog: http://daughtersofthanos.tumblr.com/post/164309147078/fanfiction-aesthetics-5-not-to-fear-the-laying (aesthetic); http://daughtersofthanos.tumblr.com/post/164431287633/not-to-fear-the-laying-of-my-head-upon-the-pillow (link)
> 
> Feel free to drop by our inbox, also!


	4. Now and Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait on this chapter, but Uni has started up again and we had a lot to do. Thank you for all the comments and kudos, as always. They keep us writing.

“It looks like something’s  _ died _ .”

“I don’t know, I’ve gotten used to it.”

“You’re unrecognizable! I almost left you in hospital, told them they’d made a mistake.”

“Did you now?” Farrier asked distractedly, stroking a hand through the hair on his jaw.

Collins looked down at the bathroom tile to hide his laugh. He curled the towel in his hand, and, shaking his head, straightened and walked farther into the bathroom. Farrier sat in his wheelchair by the sink, eyeing the Merkur razor on the counter with suspicion. As Collins filled a bowl with hot water, Farrier commented, “I think I’ll keep it.”

“Absolutely not.” Collins caught Farrier’s eye in the mirror and smiled, all mischief and determination, and Farrier couldn’t help but smile back. It was a rare smile, one with real happiness behind it and not something Farrier put on to please others. It fell into a pointed frown when Collins armed himself with Burma-Shave and a pair of scissors. Collins pointed the scissors at Farrier and shook them to emphasize his words, reminding Farrier, “And _don’t_ try to pull rank on me either, because I outrank you now.”

Farrier rolled his eyes and groaned, accepting his fate. Pleased, Collins nodded and perched on the edge of the sink, careful not to knock over the razor. He set to work cutting off the longest parts of Farrier’s beard. Brown strands fell to the floor and Farrier’s lap with each cut until the hair left on his face was just a strange-looking mass of dark clumps and stubble. Collins snorted.

“I’ll just leave it like this,” he told Farrier, setting the scissors aside. He shifted so Farrier could see in the mirror. Farrier’s nose scrunched disapprovingly when he saw himself and Collins chuckled, throwing his head back to make a sound approaching a cackle. Farrier pushed at his calf jokingly, but the force of it almost sent Collins crashing to the floor, and soon they were both laughing like schoolboys. Collins half-expected his grandmother to come check on them, which only made him laugh harder. Most of the shaving cream that had been in his hand was now on his shirt. He took a deep breath to settle himself before it wound up anywhere else that wasn’t Farrier’s face.

“Come here then.” Sliding off of the sink counter, Collins wheeled Farrier around so that he was closer to the bathtub and sat in front of him. He squeezed the shaving cream into Farrier’s good hand, letting him slather it over his face while he attached the blade to his razor. Despite having been carried with him through the whole war, it was still in great condition. The metal shone brilliantly under the artificial light, and it was still visibly sharp, enough so that even some months of being out of practice wouldn't prevent a close-shave. For this reason, Collins had been surprised when Farrier asked for his help; Farrier had one good arm, as well as a stubbornness about pushing himself too far that frustrated Collins to no end. But he hadn’t asked for reasons, just went to the bathroom and pulled out his shaving kit.

It was only when he looked up to Farrier’s face that Collins realized how close they were. Farrier’s knee rested between his, and when he leaned forward to press the razor to his cheek, Collins could see the browns and grays and greens of his eyes perfectly. Then Farrier lifted his chin, exposing more of his throat to the blade. Collins could have choked on his desire.

Collins reached his hand forward, fingers pressed against Farrier’s cheekbone and under his jaw to guide his movements. He tried not to look at his lips. The slow scrape of the razor, the periodic drip of the leaky faucet, the gentle hum of the bathroom light--they all became background noise to Collins. He worked slowly, deliberately, toweling away extra cream as stubble became smooth skin. The air was hot between them where their breaths mingled. Collins could only wonder what showed on his face whenever their eyes met.

When he finished and wiped off the excess shaving cream with a towel, Collins said, “Didn’t cut you.” The statement, which he’d meant to be strong and triumphant, came out as barely a whisper. He had not yet released Farrier’s jaw from his hand.

“No,” Farrier agreed, acknowledging Collins’ accomplishment but little else. He had not yet pulled away.

Collins inhaled quickly and pulled his arm back, afraid of what he might do if he remained that close to Farrier’s lips. “Right,” he stammered. “Better let you wash up.” He tossed the towel in the sink, keeping his gaze averted. His heartbeat was faster than a spitfire, flying into his throat,  hammering into his chest like a crash.

“Right,” Farrier repeated. His lips parted and he licked them as if he might say more. He didn’t. Instead, he wheeled over to the cabinet to select a fresh washcloth before reversing back toward the tub. There was nothing on his face to betray his thoughts, but Collins could see it in the way his fingers lingered over each thing he touched and the way his whole body leaned forward; he wanted Collins to stay. Collins wished he would ask.

When only silence hung between them, neither man daring to move and Collins unable to breathe, he nodded once and left. Expecting Farrier to close the door, he walked into his room without pause. He did not hear it click shut. So he turned, glad of a reason that might call him back to Farrier. But Farrier didn’t seem to have paid the door--or his privacy--any mind.

Farrier positioned his wheelchair as close as he could to the tub before leaning all of his weight to the right and hauling himself to sit on the edge. Careful to keep his casts out of the water, he balanced precariously with one leg on either side of the tub. It was a testament to the strength he regained every day. Collins stopped moving to watch. He promised himself it was just to help if Farrier fell, ignoring that Farrier had been bathing himself without incident since his arrival, and allowed his eyes to linger. Farrier used his good arm to tug off his shirt. Collins’ breath hitched when he saw those familiar muscles, hard slopes and solid knolls that had always been difficult to pry his eyes away from during football matches on base. Water ran over them now as sweat had before. Collins remembered every hungry look he’d hidden away back then and almost laughed; that self-control was absent now. Now he was all burning skin and prying eyes, dry mouth and laboring lungs. 

Muscles straining as he maintained his balance, Farrier held the washcloth under the faucet again to soak it, and then pressed it against the top of his spine. He let the water flow down his back in rivulets, making paths Collins wished to follow with his fingers. His tongue. He watched one path until it disappeared under Farrier’s waistband. With effort, Collins took a purposefully deep breath, exhaling noisily. He changed his shirt, pulled at his collar. Then he laid across his bed. The ceiling was considerably less interesting than Farrier’s skin, though it displayed a similar number of marks. Collins counted them and listened to the water run. 

With his thumb Collins rubbed small circles into the line of exposed skin between his sweater and trousers. He continued to follow each imperfection in the ceiling, tracing them with his eyes the way he wanted to trace the scars on Farrier’s body. The ceiling transformed into the sky when he closed his eyes; he imagined he was flying, feeling his stomach flip. Collins slowed his hand as if he was simply coasting then, so far off the ground and so far away from all the pain. There was nothing but giddy pleasure.

But then the water stopped running, he opened his eyes, and his bedroom came crashing back into focus. Flustered, Collins sat up and wedged a pillow under his arms right as Farrier wheeled in, a towel over his bare shoulders and his hair a dripping, spiky mess. Collins grabbed the nearest book and flipped it open to a random page before Farrier could catch him staring, heart thumping. He read the same sentence at least a dozen times as he waited.

As he used his free arm to move around the bedroom, Farrier reached tentative fingers out to the objects that lined any shelf he could reach. Before taking anything he looked back to Collins, who gulped, nodded, and watched Farrier pick apart the pieces of his modest life. The model planes Farrier paid particular attention to; he weighed them in his hand and scrutinized their hand-painted details. “I made those with my da,” Collins offered. Farrier knew not to press the topic, so he simply closed his eyes and tipped his chin, honored to be told.

Farrier whistled when he reached Collins’ medals. Though there were others, his gaze lingered on the Distinguished Flying Medal. Collins wanted to jump out of his bed and pin it to Farrier’s jacket, an immediate DFM like he deserved. Collins was proud of the tours he had done to earn it, but he would have been more proud in that moment to see Farrier standing in full uniform, a smile on his face, as he was awarded the medal in front of a cheering crowd. No doubt the smile would have been forced--Farrier hated attention for doing what he deemed _was only necessary, was only_ right--but he would have looked damn good in his dress blues. Collins let himself imagine the scene, if only for a moment, as he pretended to stare at the his book once more. He had that damn paragraph memorized by now.

“Fin, do you mind if I take one?”

Collins pretended to be absorbed in the words on the page before blinking and asking, “Did you say something?” He was secretly proud when it sounded authentic.

“Can I take a book?”

“You can take anything you’d like,” Collins replied casually. _Myself included_.

Farrier’s fingers brushed worn, torn bindings until he stopped on a sapphire blue novel with nearly illegible gold lettering. Its colors, once brilliant, had faded with dust and time. The story was something with damsels and dragons, swords and stones, a childhood fantasy of heroism that Collins had left in Oxton when he found his way to the real battle. Farrier flipped through it, skimming over the pages until he eventually commented, “Doesn’t seem like a bad place to run off to. Much better than out in the snow.” He shot Collins a pointed look.

Collins stared coolly back. He frowned. “I’m not running off anywhere.”

“I suppose I’m imagining your absences, then.”

Collins, warmed by the thought of Farrier missing him, forgot to be frustrated. He sat his book down on the bed and propped himself up on one elbow to better look at Farrier. In truth, he had been spending more time in the old barn and less at home ever since their fight, though he hadn’t meant to avoid Farrier. “I’ve a broken plane to fix.” Feeling bolder, he added, “It’s bad now, but it’s getting better.”

“Maybe it can’t get better,” Farrier said. He didn’t stop reading, only furrowed his brows and let the words escape as a whisper.

“Not if I can help it.”

Farrier looked up sharply. Although he seemed fearful, there was a glimmer of hope beneath the fear; some raw, unadulterated belief in Collins’ ability to heal him.

“Go on, get dressed,” Collins suggested in order to stop the part of him that wanted to drag Farrier into the bed and hold him until even his scars vanished. He walked to his closet and pulled out the pile of shirts Farrier had already ripped to fit his cast and tossed him the warmest one, a green flannel that Collins had picked out initially because it reminded him of Farrier’s eyes. Farrier struggled into it, ripping it even more, and Collins stifled a laugh as a button flew across the floor.

“At least you’ll be out of that one soon.” He pointed to Farrier’s arm.

Farrier scoffed, picking at the flaking plaster on the outermost layer of his cast. “ _Soon_? A week? Two?”

“How about tomorrow?” Collins offered. That caught Farrier’s attention. Swiveling his head toward Collins like a dog hearing a strange noise, he leaned forward, eyes wide. Collins folded his arms across his chest and took a few steps to lessen the distance between himself and Farrier. “Listen” he started, trying to ignore how eager Farrier looked and how badly he wanted to just cut the cast off of him now, “You get yourself anywhere in the village today, and you can take it off in the morning.”

Farrier had not left the house since his arrival four days before. The closest he had come was accompanying Carstaine to the door on her way to the village kirk on Sunday, six bags of scarves and gloves on his lap that were ready to be handed off to the women who walked with her every week. Collins knew Farrier didn’t mind staying inside--he preferred it even, afraid to appear weak to anyone, and especially strangers. But it wasn’t helping him heal.

Sitting back in his wheelchair, Farrier scratched his head. “I don’t know where anything is,” he protested.

“It’ll give you a chance to learn your new home,” Collins shot back, unfazed.

The words rested heavy between them. Farrier’s eyes burned with some mesmerizing blend of surprise, fear, and adoration. Farrier hadn’t had a home for years; not the base, and certainly not whatever prison the enemy had thrown him into. And now Collins could give him Oxton. He would have given Farrier everything from the moment they met--his heart, his body--and now he could give him his future. Realizing exactly what had been offered, Farrier widened his eyes, blinked quickly, and cleared his throat.

“Then learn it I will,” he replied softly. His voice was strong, but his fingers were shaking.

“If you get lost, shout. There’s always someone friendly just sitting around, waiting to be useful.”

Farrier laughed, and the tension broke with his crinkled eyes and a smile that rivaled the brightness of stars. Moving to his bed, he deposited his book and then sighed at the buttonless front of his shirt. Collins chuckled and then went to his closet, where Carstaine had folded all the clothes they’d been giving Farrier. From the pile he drew an enormous sweater, one even too large for Farrier’s broad shoulders. He grinned, and held it up for Farrier to see. Farrier groaned.

“Well you can’t go out like that or you’ll freeze.” Collins walked over as he rolled it up to its gaping hole of a neck. The sleeves swung like blankets on a clothesline.

Farrier conceded with a discontented hum. He held his right arm high and let Collins drop the sleeve over it. When he tried to slide the other over the cast, however, plaster caught on wool and the whole process came to a halt. “Fin,” Farrier warned, but Collins was already tugging and laughing as if he’d never seen anything quite so funny.

Eventually the sleeve submitted. Collins slid the neck over Farrier’s head with ease, yet let his fingers and hands linger to smooth down the myriad wrinkles even where there were no wrinkles. Farrier’s hand, pulling the material so it fit better, followed close enough to Collins’ that his heart skipped several beats. To prevent himself from doing anything foolish, he stepped away.

“Right,” he said. Unsure of what to do with his hands when they could no longer be on Farrier, he settled for putting them on his hips and looking around the room. “I’ll, uh. Get ready.”

Collins collected his rucksack, canteen, and jacket, and then made his way into the kitchen without looking at Farrier again. After filling his canteen with water, he grabbed a few protein bars. He considered taking a carton of cigarettes out with him this time. He’d smoked the few that had been stashed in the barn already and they had been disgustingly stale, having been hidden there when he was barely fifteen. But the only pack left was Lucky Strikes, and he didn’t care for the taste. In a last effort he hesitantly walked into the living room and approached the fireplace. Collins unlatched the box that held his father’s old pipe, regarded it for a moment, and then closed the box again. He left it next to the framed war portrait on the mantle. Shifting his gaze to the right, Collins eyes came to rest on the photograph of his mother, a stern-looking woman in every way but her eyes. He wished the portrait could have been colored; he could no longer remember the color of those eyes.

Though he didn’t make a sound as he approached, Collins knew Farrier was behind him.  

“She would have liked you,” Collins whispered. He stroked the frame with his thumb before turning away. Her loss was no longer a hollow ache, but a dull one, lessened with time. There was no grief to be swallowed down or tears to be held back. When Farrier grabbed his wrist, then, he wondered why his chest felt so heavy.

Farrier stroked his thumb over Collins’ knuckles. He waited until Collins squeezed his wrist to release him. Then, Collins grabbed the wheelchair’s handles and pushed Farrier to the front door. Farrier finally felt the full force of a Scottish Borders winter once the door was open. Collins laughed as Farrier wrapped his arms around himself and glared up. He was still laughing, and Farrier was still glaring, as he slowly guided the chair off the front step. As soon as Farrier was settled on even ground, Collins moved away and regarded him with pride.

“Remember to shout.”

Farrier huffed before his lips curled into a lopsided smile. “Have some faith, Fin.”

Collins waited until Farrier was out of his sight to move. He walked the roads, completely clear thanks to the tractors, before they ended. Then, he followed the worn track he’d made in the last few days. He didn’t need to work to make it through the packed-down snow. In some places it had even started to melt, and Collins wondered if Oxton might see a sunny day soon.

As he approached the barnhouse, Collins suddenly felt his feet slip from beneath him. He fell clumsily on his side; the icy patch was new and unexpected, and he slid at least a foot downhill before stopping.

“Ah, fuck.”

Groaning, Collins flipped onto his back. He waited for the sky to stop spinning--and for his breath to return--before sitting up. His shoulder ached from the fall, and he stretched it slowly, grimacing. He stopped when he heard laughter.

A few of the village children stood on the road before it diverged into the path Collins had made for himself. They pointed and giggled mercilessly, and then shook their hockey sticks in the air. One of the older boys held his skates up. “We were gonnae ask if you wanted to play, Mr. Collins, but you cannae stay on your own feet!”

“Oh, shut your geggie, you twat!” Collins yelled back. Their laughter resumed. He held out a while longer before joining them, raising his arms in the air, accepting and inviting their mockery with a grin. Gingerly, he stood, and the lads shouted triumphantly as he took a step and managed to stay upright.

Collins turned his shoulders to eye the barn. The plane sat covered inside, on its way to flying shape again. There were months of work to be done. But, Collins reasoned, he could leave it alone for one day.

“Still offering?” He called. Various affirmatives followed, so he made his way--carefully this time--over to the group. When he reached them they poked at his side and ridiculed him some more, promising to retell the tale until the whole village thought they had seen it themselves. Collins cuffed a few of them playfully on the ear.

“I’ll get my skates.”


	5. Our Second Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a long chapter for the long delay! We know it's been quite the gap, but real life must (unfortunately) come first. Thank you for all the kudos and lovely comments thus far! You keep us going!

The first thing Collins realized when he shuffled into the living room was that Farrier was no longer wearing his arm cast. He looked out from under his wet hair, still dripping with sweat and melting snow, and narrowed his eyes at the lack of bulky plaster. Farrier sat in his wheelchair reading the book he had taken from Collins’ room, one hand supporting the hardback and the other setting down a half-drained water glass. He didn’t look up when he remarked, “I went to see the doctor.”

“I noticed.”

Farrier turned the page. Collins watched him mouth the words to himself as he read, eyes sliding over each sentence with genuine interest, and turned away, hiding a grin. Setting his skates by the fireplace, he asked, “What’d you do, stare at him ‘til he took it off?” He rubbed his hands together as close to the flame as he could.

“Hm.” Farrier was only half paying attention, absorbed in whatever world that book had magicked him away to.

Collins wished to join him there, to fight dragons instead of ghosts, but instead he remained silent and continued to follow as Farrier’s lips and tongue shaped each word. He got so lost in doing so that he didn’t catch that Farrier had been staring at the same sentence for too long, his mouth quirked up and his voice no longer whispering along with the fire’s gentle crackle. Collins blushed.

“What?” Farrier asked. His eyes didn’t leave his page, but Collins felt he could see right through him.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Farrier’s laugh was low and rhythmic, throaty enough that most people mistook it for sarcasm. Collins knew the difference, of course; Farrier was genuinely touched by the attention. In the RAF, every airman knew Thomas Farrier as the stoic one, and as the man who could be bleeding like rainfall but do nothing except ask if the rest of his squadron was safe.

Smiling, and sufficiently warmed, Collins traded his place at the fireplace for a seat on the sofa. It was an old, uncomfortable thing, but it was softer than pond ice, so he wasn’t complaining. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Luckily, Carstaine wasn’t around to scold him for wearing wet clothes on the furniture. He had all the minutes he wanted to spare to watch Farrier read.

Though, Farrier was no longer reading. His chin was angled downward and his finger marked his place, yet his eyes peered up through long lashes. They moved along Collins’ body as carefully as they had just moved along printed letters: with reverence for every line, every curve. It was subtle enough that Collins could not catch his eyes. He could only feel them.

He blushed, and was glad for the flames casting a dark shadow over his face. The fire was the only light besides the lamp Farrier was using for reading. The room felt smaller for it; the house, even, as if everything had been reduced to that space in that moment. Collins heard the soft sound of paper on wood when Farrier put the book aside. He heard the intake of breath, the quiet disregard for pain, and the creak of the wheelchair as Farrier leaned over it to reach him. Laying his hand palm-up on the arm of the couch, Collins watched as Farrier slid his fingers into the spaces between his.

Collins chuckled before pressing his lips together to quiet the sound. He stared at their intertwined hands and made no effort to hide the triumphant grin that graced his features, nor the flash of his tongue as it darted out between his teeth. Farrier huffed. They settled into an easy silence, Farrier’s hand settled comfortably atop Collins’.

With some difficulty, Farrier resumed his reading, using only one hand to hold the book and turn the pages. Collins snorted and rolled his eyes at him, but held the hand he had been given tighter. After a quiet pause, he mumbled, “I didn’t make it out to the plane today. At this rate, I’ll never fly again.”

Farrier wrinkled his nose. “At least you could if you had a working plane.”

“I didn’t mean--”

Farrier rubbed his thumb against Collins’ hand and shook his head apologetically. “I know. And I know I’ll eventually be alright. I just don’t like this part. Waiting.” He looked back at Collins. Collins felt he should say something about the wait, how it was worth it because it brought Farrier back to him, but he didn’t get the chance before Farrier spoke again. “What did you do instead?”

Collins reached down and rolled the left leg of his pants up, revealing a puck-shaped, purple and blue bruise. He grunted as his stiff legs protested the movement.

Farrier nodded thoughtfully. “That explains the skates.” While Collins settled back into the couch, Farrier asked him mockingly, “Too old to keep up?”

Collins opened his eyes and mouth wide, protesting with a toothy smile and a loud scoff.  “I’m just out of practice.”

“Oh, right, my mistake.” He sniggered.

Collins smiled and pushed against Farrier’s arm a little, still faking offense. “You know, I hope Dr. Reid kept the cast, because those doaty little bastards destroyed me. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve a working bone left in my body.”

The laugh he got in return was enough to make him take every fall again.

Even the next morning, when Collins could barely walk for how sore he was, his face split into  giddy smile every time he thought of the moment. He felt like he was back at University, brushing hands with secret lovers in the hall.

To push some of the giddiness away, Collins decided to stay in and relax with his grandfather. He took his place on the couch as close to his grandfather’s armchair as possible. When Iain noticed him, he silently handed him the pages of the newspaper he had finished reading, and they continued sharing pages as they watched the sun rise through the window. They talked politics and football and the winter, never once mentioning the war. Each time Collins felt a smile, he hid it by curling his lip, an expected response to any conversation about the King.

Farrier joined them while Iain was off on a particularly scornful rant about England; he only squinted and cocked his head amusedly before easing himself out of his wheelchair and onto the couch beside Collins. Collins bumped his shoulder against Farrier’s in gratitude for not commenting. Farrier leaned into him afterward, chasing the contact, and Collins felt his chest and stomach tighten, though not unpleasantly. They were pressed together from shoulder to knee, and Farrier’s hand sat half on his own thigh, half on Collins’.

After Iain’s rant ended, Collins leaned past Farrier to pat his grandfather’s knee. The warmth of Farrier’s body beside him, _beneath_ him, sent a jolt through his core, and Collins found himself holding his breath as he returned to his own place on the couch. He wanted to mold himself into all the empty spaces between him and Farrier until there was nothing left to separate them.

Instead, he said, “Granda, breakfast’s waiting.”

Carstaine came to collect her husband a moment later. She was smiling at him already as they walked off, arm in arm, with Iain loosely paraphrasing the king’s speech. Collins let out a sputtering laugh and shook his head at Farrier.

Farrier peered at him, his expression all at once fond and unbearably sad, so Collins intertwined their fingers once more. When Farrier squeezed tight, he also sighed, and his eyes drifted to the wheelchair. He grimaced at it.Collins pointed at the casts still molded to his legs and the bandages hiding beneath an oversized sweater.

“You know you have to,” Collins said. He stood. Grabbing the chair’s handles, he rolled it closer. “I have to lift you,” he explained. Farrier had been managing well enough on his own and had easily managed moving from the chair to the couch, but there was no way he could lift himself back off the couch. It was too low. With his arm still injured, Collins didn’t like Farrier doing any lifting whatsoever, but Farrier was entrenched in at least that independence. Collins gave him a hard look, willing him to see this was necessary.

Face hard and unreadable, Farrier swung one arm around Collins’ neck. Collins snaked an arm around Farrier’s waist and pulled him up, making sure the leg that was still in a cast did not touch the ground, and held his other hand against his chest to keep him upright. It was a difficult maneuver with Farrier being shorter than Collins, and resulted in Farrier more falling into rather than sitting in his wheelchair. Losing his footing, Collins cursed and collapsed halfway on top of Farrier, who grunted.

Carstaine, a spurtle in hand, walked back into the room with a scowl on her face while Collins’ face was still half-buried in Farrier’s neck. She made no comment on that, ignoring the moment in favor of scolding both her grandson and houseguest.

“I expected you both to follow,” she said with all the irritation of a grandmother who has cooked all morning and expects the seats at her table to be full.

“Yes, ma’am,” Collins answered immediately, not without a bit of cheek in his tone. Carstaine pointed her spurtle at her grandson and shook it with fake menace. Collins feigned shock. When she held the utensil at her side again, Collins decided it was safe enough to move away from Farrier and justify his absence from the breakfast table.

“We were just figuring out the day. We’ll be there in a moment.”

“You can figure in here,” Carstaine retorted, but then nodded her head. She began to turn back to the kitchen, but stopped herself in the last moment to ask, “He sent for some of his things, didn’t he?”

Farrier looked helpless.

“She asked if you sent for your things. From Hammersmith.”

“Oh. I did.”

“Yes, he did.”

“I want to take him around the village. We can check if his things have arrived, and get him some new clothes.”

“She wants to take you to see if they’re here.”

“Is that all?”

Collins laughed. “Not exactly.”

Collins did not see much of Farrier that day, or of the next two. Carstaine showed him the village, and he in turn kept her company when Collins was working on the plane. Whenever Iain worsened, Carstaine insisted Farrier leave the house. She was afraid he would suffer the same fate as her husband. Collins glimpsed Farrier’s eyes sometimes when he thought he wasn’t looking; they were blank, numb, detached. Collins was afraid, too.

When he wasn’t enlisted as Carstaine’s walking--or, in his case, rolling--companion, he was working with the doctor on his arm’s mobility. He constantly pushed himself too far and often returned with swollen joints and shaking hands. It tended to pay off; by the next morning, he usually had greater mobility, and by the tenth of January, had almost returned to normal movement.

Still, Collins felt Farrier’s absence as acutely as the renewed chill in Oxton. Fog covered the village in great grey waves. Buildings blurred and people turned to faceless figures who were glad to have memorized the paths through Oxton long ago. That fog was keeping most of its inhabitants indoors, usually at the pub. Collins found himself spending more time there as well, finally giving into the incessant questions about his service as long as he had a pint or cigarette in hand. When the questions turned to Farrier, he excused himself, trusting his feet to carry him to the barn. He finally gave up on working when he tried to tighten a bolt with a hammer.

When he returned late Thursday night to find Farrier and Iain facing one another, deep concentration furrowing their brows as they poured over a game of chess, Collins felt a flood of warmth that temporarily displaced the weariness he had been feeling. Iain was winning, Collins noticed, but Farrier was holding his own. Collins offered them both a polite greeting as he closed the door, and then began to make his way to his room. Engine grease coated his hands and arms and face, sticking under his nails and to the beard he’d been meaning to shave. He decided it was as good as time as any to get around to it.

Collins stopped walking when he heard what was broadcasting on the radio.

“Is that--is that the King? We’re listening to the King?” he asked, voice rough with disuse from the day and high with confusion. His grandfather often made a point of ignoring royal broadcasts, preferring to read about them the next day rather than ‘suffer through them,’ as he put it. Generally the broadcasts brought about some shotgun waving that Carstaine certainly did not tolerate. Collins looked at the back of Farrier’s head, wondering if this had been his doing.

“Don’t look at me,” Farrier grumbled as he moved his pawn around the chessboard. He hadn’t even turned to Collins.

Iain narrowed his eyes at Farrier’s move, studied his own pieces, and said, “Eh, we can turn it off anyway.” He reached over to silence the radio before continuing, “He’s on about _peace_. It’s that United Nations thing today, like they think that’ll do a load of good. Peace! Ha, I remember the first time they said that--” here he began to address Farrier as if Collins was no longer in the room, “--and then my grandson was off to fight in another war just after my son died in the last one. Mark my words, when you have a son, he’ll die in the next.”

A tense silence filled the room. Without even the radio to provide background noise, each man looked anxiously to the other for a word of anything. Then, the fire popped suddenly, an oddly loud noise that echoed a gunshot; Farrier and Iain both flinched, jostling the chess board and sending most of the pieces to the floor. Each fallen piece seemed to hit the wooden floor with more force. Collins rushed forward to stop his grandfather from aiming the shotgun at the wall, but was stopped before he passed Farrier. Farrier’s hand had shot out to grab Collins’ wrist, and he held him in place. Collins looked to Iain, who had recovered better than Farrier--he was shaking his head and leaning over to pick up his knight. The shotgun was bent beneath his arm, harmless.

Collins squatted in front of Farrier and put his hands on his knees. Farrier’s breaths came as rapidly as his wide eyes blinked, but his gaze was fixed on Collins, trusting him to keep him grounded.

“I’m right here,” Collins promised, running his hands gently up and down Farrier’s thighs to soothe him, heedless of his grandfather’s presence. Farrier nodded and swallowed. The numbness that usually lived behind his eyes was replaced with something all at once as fearful as a wild horse and as lost as a newborn child.

Standing, Iain shook his head. Though all his pieces were collected, he still studied the floor. His voice was weary when he spoke. “Look what they’ve done to us.”

“That’s not helping,” Collins gritted between his teeth. His legs were stiff, so he knelt in front of Farrier instead and stalled his hands.

Farrier’s knuckles were white where he gripped the wheelchair. “No, listen, I’m fine. I just need… I need to be alone a moment.”

Then, it was Collins’ turn to blink. He froze. When he pulled his hands away, Farrier did not seem to mourn the loss; his shoulders relaxed as if he could finally breathe, and his fingers loosened on the chair’s handlebars. Flushed with embarrassment, Collins jumped up and started to push Farrier to their room. They did not speak. Collins kept his movements slow, neutral, plotting a smooth course through the cottage until Farrier was safely beside his own bed.

“I’ll be in here if you want me.” Collins waited at the doorway for Farrier to acknowledge him, but he didn't. With a sigh, Collins walked past him into the bathroom, flipping the light on and heading straight to the sink. He turned the faucet on as hot as it would go, waited for the water to practically boil, scrubbed off his hands, and splashed the steaming water onto his face.

Once he dried his face enough to see, he picked at the grime under his nails, frowning. Grabbing the closest rag, he wet it and scrubbed at his skin until it was pink. His hands were shaking. Collins scowled at them, used them to tug his shirt over his head and stare into the mirror until his reflection blurred, and breathed until everything came back into focus. When he was ready--he hadn’t a clue how much time had passed, only that he felt better--he picked up his razor in one hand, slathering cream on his face with the other. Collins scraped the sharp edge down his chin while nudging the bathroom door open with his foot.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so useless to you,” Collins called into the quiet space.

The scrape of the razor was the only response. He hated that he wanted Farrier to need him so badly; the guilt was a constant and persistent itch. Counting each inhale and each exhale, Collins waited. He lifted the razor to his face again. One clean cut after another, then--

You are the only reason I am still breathing, Fin.”

Worried he was going to cut himself gripping the razor so tightly, Collins sat it on the edge of the sink and swiveled his head to look into his room. Farrier was in the doorway, pulling uselessly at the compression bandages around his ribs. Fresh scars were visible where Dr. Reid had recently removed stitches. Farrier’s fingers were swollen again, but he continued trying to unwrap the bandages all the same.

Collins toweled off his face. Swallowing his heart back down into his chest where it belonged, he closed his eyes and breathed. When he reopened them, his feet had already carried him into his room. “Why didn’t you ask Dr. Reid to change those for you?” Collins asked exasperatedly. He stepped closer to Farrier, ignoring the way his skin--paler than the rest of him due to being covered for so long--could so easily be touched. He kept his hands at his side.

“I told him I could do it myself now.”

Scoffing fondly, Collins wiped his hands on his pants and stepped forward until he could kneel down and brush his fingers over the brown wrap. He realized it was the second time he’d been on his knees in front of Farrier within the same hour and felt himself getting hard at the thought. A moment later, Farrier’s palm was pressed to his cheek, and he made a breathless sound that he hoped didn’t too closely resemble a whimper. Farrier moved his hand down. He rubbed his thumb over a spot on Collins’ jaw. He laughed quietly, and pulled his thumb back to show Collins the black streak on it. “You missed a spot.”

Collins, completely still, forgot to answer as he watched Farrier’s lips.

Eventually, Farrier sighed, taking the silence as Collins just not wanting to speak. “You know, Fin,” Farrier whispered, “I need you.”

“You need me to you take your bandages off,” Collins countered, but his earlier irritation had dissipated.

“I do,” Farrier deadpanned, and then laughed. His eyes, so distant before, looked as sharp and alert as they were when he sat in the cockpit.

Collins smiled. He stood again and backed up until his knees hit the edge of the bed, then sat. Farrier rolled forward, lifting his arms as high as he could when he was close, and did his best to hide the pain such movement caused. It was unconvincing. Collins frowned. Farrier sighed.

With a feather-light touch, Collins picked at the bandages’ edge. Farrier moved without being asked; he anticipated each necessary change and followed before Collins even knew what to do. Collins took more time than was needed. He let his hands map out hard muscles that only his eyes had known before. His fingers traced scars and healing wounds, but he banished pity from his eyes. Farrier’s body was worn, damaged, yet still so strong.

When all of the bandages were in a pile on the bed next to Collins, he asked “I’m thinking you’re planning to tell Dr. Reid that you took these off?”

Farrier hummed, which Collins knew to mean ‘maybe.’ He smiled.

The next afternoon, Collins went with Farrier to his appointment to see if the ‘maybe’ would become a ‘yes.’ The thought didn’t bother him; he knew Farrier appreciated the help, and it was one hell of a thing for Farrier to admit that he needed help in the first place. Collins felt that was enough.

It was tranquil in Dr. Reid’s office, which was really just an additional wing to the Reid household. Generally he visited patients in their own homes. Most of them were either sick from the cold or sick from too many whiskeys. Pregnant women were cared for by Mrs. Reid, the village’s midwife. This office was reserved for patients with broken bones and patients who might expect surgery--the latter of whom were given pain medication and a hand to hold before being sent to a hospital in the city.

The space was warm, mahogany wood and red tones and bright lines almost enough to make Collins forget the rain outside. A man’s voice crooned from the turntable in the corner:

 

_How much do I love you?_

_I’ll tell you no lie._

_How deep is the ocean?_

_How high is the sky?_

 

Collins stopped his examination of the office and let his eyes drift to Farrier. His body was tense, with his gaze fixed on the wheelchair. Brows furrowed, Farrier looked between it and the door where the doctor might appear at any moment. It was the hopeful nervousness of a pilot stepping into his first plane, knowing that it will carry him but still wondering if he will drop into the sky without a parachute.

“Hey.” Collins tapped Farrier’s elbow. “It’s alright to be excited.”

Farrier shook his head. “Excitement is for your first time in a spitfire. I’m confident.”

“You’re cocky.”

The corner of Farrier’s lip quirked in a smile. “I can’t argue that.” Making a low sound in the back of his throat that could have been a laugh, he raised one eyebrow and tilted his chin a little, all at once charming and inviting. Collins felt himself moving closer to him. Turning his shoulders until he was facing Farrier completely, Collins leaned his forehead against Farrier’s while their laughter faded naturally into the air between their lips. Collins watched Farrier’s gaze shift from his eyes to his mouth. He licked his lips. Farrier inhaled.

Collins wanted to ask if he could kiss him. He didn’t even want to ask; he wanted to grab Farrier’s collar and pull him in and crush his lips under his own. He wanted to hear him moan.

Then, he heard footsteps, and Farrier half-shouting: “Doctor!”

Farrier ran his fingers through his hair nervously. He and Collins--who stood quickly, heart hammering--exchanged panicked glances before Farrier pushed himself to meet the man in the middle of the room. Collins followed, slower.

“Mr. Farrier!” Dr. Reid greeted enthusiastically in return. He hadn’t noticed anything, or did an excellent job of hiding that he had. He shook Farrier’s hand with fervor and smiled genuinely, so Collins let himself relax.

“Let it never be said that you are not dedicated, Thomas.”

Collins smothered a snort. Dr. Reid noticed and shot him a wink. He continued commenting on Farrier’s overextension and Farrier continued to assure him that he was a fast healer and didn’t need the easy and safe options. Disinclined to agree, Collins huffed but did not offer his opinion. Instead, he settled on listening to the music that was still filtering softly throughout the office.

“Fin, my boy. It’s a dreich day, isn’t it?”

“Eh?”

“It’s a nasty bit of rain we’re getting this month.”

“Oh, yes, that is is, sir, that it is.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, embarrassed to have been caught distracted. He kept listening to the record play; __How far would I travel to be where you are? How far is the journey from here to a star?_ _

Dr. Reid beckoned Farrier through to his exam room, all the while maintaining their benevolent disagreement. He complimented Farrier’s regained arm strength, and then their voices faded as they disappeared further into the Reid home.

Collins sat, still and patient, for a long time before his anxiety got the better of him. He paced about the office. Pleasant landscapes and portraits hung on the walls, brandishing bright colors that were absent in this winter. Most of the paintings were done by the villagers; Collins smiled every time he recognized a name scrawled neatly in a corner.

Once he realized Farrier would be longer than he’d expected, he braved the rain and wind to walk to the woodworker’s shop. Though only a few houses away, the chill made the journey last forever, and entering the warm store an instant relief.

“You’ll need a cane, then.”

Collins laughed. News traveled faster than lightning here. “Nothing fancy, Andrew,” he cautioned. “Practical, though for someone, ah, solid.”

Andrew reached over to grab a pen and paper. “Height?” he asked. He was younger than Collins, but had learned the trade well.

“He’s a meter seventy-five. I can pay now--”

“I know where to find you. I’ll just send my son over with the other deliveries.”

“Ah, right. Thank you, Andrew.” Embarrassed, though not sure why yet, Collins gave a little wave before leaving. He scowled at the windy greeting he received from outside. Then, he dashed over to the Reid’s.

Collins pushed the door open, breathing a sigh of relief as he reentered the warmth of the office. But it was no longer warm and peaceful. The carpet was wet from soaked boots, and a village boy with whom Collins had played hockey just days before was howling and gripping his dislocated shoulder. Mrs. Reid was with him and his friends, trying to urge the rest of them to wait so she could go fix his shoulder; they were stuck between fear and demanding that only a man could do the job right. Collins rolled his eyes.

Farrier and the doctor were debating something quietly--or at least that was how it seemed with the scream reverberating around the room--and Collins could only just make out their words as he approached.

“--then come back on the 23rd--”

Farrier glared at Dr. Reid but respected his authority on the matter.

Once he was close enough to be heard properly, Dr. Reid gave Collins a surprised look. “Did you go for a long walk in the rain?”

“A short one,” Collins remarked dryly. “It seems the sun’s having a rest this week.”

Flattening his lips in a like-minded frown, Dr. Reid nodded. Then, he cleared his throat and addressed Farrier again. “You’ll need to do some walking, but just out of the chair and to a point and back. Like a babe.” Dr. Reid offered a jovial chuckle, but the comment went unappreciated. Farrier shifted uncomfortably in the wheelchair and Collins grimaced, knowing Farrier would be stoically miserable about this for the rest of the two weeks until he could get out of the wheelchair; he imagined Farrier was fantasizing about burning it by now. But his face was blank. Collins nearly laughed--Farrier did stoic better than most Scots.

Dr. Reid sighed. “Listen, you’re lucky it isn’t more. As it is I didn’t want you out of the cast until next month, but you convinced me otherwise. I don’t want you to attempt walking more than once every three hours. And if everything’s tidy by the 23rd, we’ll give this--” he tapped on the arm of the wheelchair--“to the next poor sod who needs it.”

Glancing at the clock, Farrier placed steady hands on either arm of the chair. He clenched his jaw. Collins, anticipating what was about to happen, knew not to waste time protesting or reasoning with Farrier. So he sighed, gestured for Dr. Reid to move, and planted himself firmly next to the wheelchair.

Farrier took a deep breath, and then he stood.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song lyrics are from 'How Deep is the Ocean' by Irving Berlin


	6. These February Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are references to suicide in this chapter. The tags will be updated accordingly, but if you missed that, this is your warning. The mention is very brief; however, in the coming chapters, there will be more explicit references to self-harm, suicide, and violence committed during war.

After Farrier was allowed out of the wheelchair, time seemed to slow, and Collins did not know what to do now that they were done _waiting_. Farrier had his good and bad days, the worst being when he withdrew to his armchair, neither eating nor speaking, farther away than Collins could imagine. The last eight days of January after that passed in a monotonous haze. Each morning, Collins woke to his quiet room, Farrier already--if he was able--out walking the fields of Oxton. Each afternoon, he took his lunch to the barn and worked on the plane. It was nearly in flying shape; he was just waiting on a few parts to arrive.

Each night, he went to sleep alone.

February arrived bitter and cold. The snow that had been threatening as nothing more than freezing rain for months finally fell, covering the village in an unexpected hush. Added to what had not melted from the winter’s first storm, it ensured hardly anyone dared to venture outdoors. Homes and hearths were more appealing than the biting wind on the way to the pub. Farrier, though, was not dissuaded; he often returned with a wind-burnt face and a smile pulling at chapped lips. Collins had many fantasies about soothing those cracks with his tongue.

He was caught in one when Farrier touched him lightly on the wrist, startling him from further thoughts. “There’s someone here for you.” He said it like he was repeating himself, a little annoyed, mostly amused, just like back on base. Collins had always been a day-dreamer. He wondered if Farrier knew that he occupied most of those dreams.

“Who is it?” Collins asked distractedly.

The corner of Farrier’s mouth quirked up. “How should I know?”

“Thought Gran had introduced you to everyone,” Collins explained as he heaved himself out of his armchair. Farrier grumbled something about “only the old birds” as Collins left him.

Carstaine had swooped upon Andrew’s son, a young man called Jack, by the time Collins reached him; his boots were drying by the oven and his hands were filled with biscuits and tea. Beside his plate on the table lay a long package tied neatly with a bow.

“Morning, Jack.”

“Morning, Finlay, er, Mr. Collins, sir.”

“He’s a nervous one,” Carstaine said in Gaelic, which only caused Jack more anxiety. His hand hesitated between another biscuit and his delivery.

Collins fetched his wallet so Jack wouldn’t have to make the decision. Carstaine had her time to cook and coddle and Collins was able to avoid the inevitable task of delivering a walking aide to his former S.O. for a little while longer.

It went about as poorly as expected.

Farrier furrowed his brow and shook his head. “I’m confident I don’t need that, Fin.”

“You can’t go on limping around the village--”

“I am not _limping_ \--”

“I watched you almost fell off the front stoop--”

“There’s _ice_ on the ground if you hadn’t noticed--” He stopped and scrubbed his hands over his face. Collins thought he’d succeeded, but Farrier only continued, “If you think it’s so useful, you use it.”

“Thomas Farrier,” Collins hissed, sickly-sweet and quiet enough that his grandmother wouldn’t notice their little spat, “don’t make me tie this to you.”

“What, an’ wrestle an invalid? That’s right noble of you.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Collins sat on the couch, pressed close to Farrier, and waved the cane in front of them. He poked Farrier in the chest with it. “C’mon. It loves you. _I_ lo--.” He coughed. “I look ridiculous dragging you round.”

A noise of disapproval came from deep in Farrier’s throat, flat just like refusal. “You’re not dragging me round anywhere, much as I’d like you to.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Collins, blinking in stunned silence, huffed and settled the cane in his lap. He tapped on it absentmindedly. Every so often he opened his mouth to respond and realized nothing good would come of it, so he closed it again.

Farrier laughed at him. “Listen, I just mean--I mean…” Sighing, he rolled his neck back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “I’d like to meet everyone. With you. See the whole village with you, since it’s home for now.” Looking almost embarrassed, Farrier bounced his better leg and waited for an answer.

“There’s no ‘for now’ about it, you know,” Collins said, and left it at that. He moved the cane from his lap to Farrier’s and stood.

“But I’ll take you round if you use that.”

Collins kept his usual pace while they made their way into the village, sure that slowing down to accommodate Farrier would only frustrate him more. Though it was much easier for him to keep up with the cane, whenever Collins asked, Farrier just grunted noncommittally. Once they reached the fountain in the center of the village, Collins paused to admire it as if he hadn’t seen it most days of his life. Farrier sat on a bench and pretended not to notice the break was for him.

“I thought pub first,” Collins announced. He swiped his hand through his hair to push it out of his face and shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “That’s where most everyone will be.”

“At ten in the morning?” Farrier chuckled. Then he whistled, impressed. “The Scots really do drink to die.”

Collins laughed and looked down at his boots. His stomach was fluttering for no particular reason, and he sucked in a deep, cold breath through his teeth, tasting snow on the air. He watched Farrier until he stopped rubbing his leg, then gestured for them to continue. Farrier struggled to his feet. Neither of them mentioned this.

As they walked, a group of men passed on their way back from the pub, many of whom had flown with Iain years ago. Their feet shuffled slowly in the snow, some of them only able to move with the aide of their friends or their canes. Collins saluted them. They saluted back, tipped their hats, whatever was easiest for their aching bones. One man tugged his friend’s sleeve and said, in a voice like a creaking door-hinge, “Look at that beauty.”

Collins covered his mouth to hide his smile as Farrier followed the man’s line of sight to the newly-christened cane. “Andrew’s handiwork,” Collins told the group, eyes alight.

“You’re a lucky man, soldier.”

Commander Robertson piped in from the back of their party. “Ya think one o’ those fancy new ones’ll help me walk again?”

Raucous laughter burst through the group to the absolute confusion of Farrier. He looked at Collins, concerned, until Captain Robertson appeared. His wheelchair was older and sturdier than Farrier’s had been. It was designed for permanent use. Mrs. Robertson had knitted bright blue stockings for the stumps where his legs had once been, and they contrasted starkly with the dark grey landscape of Oxton in wintertime.

“Keep dreamin’, ye old fool.”

“Perhaps I’ll jus’ use it ta crack yer skull!” Everyone cackled.

Leaning into Farrier’s space, Collins explained, “Wingmates,” while pointing at the two bantering men.

Farrier hummed knowingly. “Suppose we’ll turn out like them?”

Collins, with his chest tight, thought of the men’s wives. “We might,” he answered, unable to suppress the sadness in his tone. He cleared his throat. “Right, come on then. Gentleman.”

“Finlay!” they all cheered. They began swaying and singing a soldier’s pub song.

“Remind Iain to get out here sometime,” Commander Robertson added hastily. The soldiers followed his lead as he gestured them onward.

“I always do, Commodore!” he answered to their retreating forms.

“There’s a good lad!”

Collins was smiling when he turned away from the men and long after. He excitedly recounted to Farrier stories his grandfather had told him and Farrier listened with interest, his attention only lapsing when he had to concentrate on his footing. Eventually Collins offered his arm; Farrier took it without hesitation. He pulled it away out of habit when they swung the door to the pub open. Wingmates or not, it wasn’t commonplace for a soldier to escort another into a pub, and both Collins and Farrier had learned to rid themselves of such telling habits early on. It didn’t lessen the sting of it.

Complaints howled out from within the heated pub, jumbled atop one another but all summarizing one simple point: “Shut the fucking door!” Collins did so hastily, but only once he’d ensured Farrier was inside and leaning comfortably against the wall. He shrugged off all the grumbles that he’d let too much snow in. Farrier was well worth the wet boots.

The pub was expectedly packed. Men huddled together in packs, toasting golden pints, talking too loudly already. Collins spotted many familiar faces. One young man shouted, “A good day to escape the misses, lads!”, and his cronies cheered while slapping his shoulders. No one was pissed--yet. It was a merry mood indeed, the snow outside and warm spirits within.

Collins decided it would be better to start with a smaller crowd and steered Farrier to a quieter corner of the pub, finding men closer to his age discussing matters outside of nagging wives. When he caught sight of Andrew, he tapped Farrier’s elbow and pulled him to the man’s table.

“You have this man to thank for the cane,” Collins told Farrier smugly. Andrew looked up from his pint and beamed at Collins, proud of his work. He stood to hug Collins and then regarded Farrier. Farrier worked his mouth into a smile and extended his hand, a model airman.

“Thomas Farrier,” he said.

“Andrew Caird.” They shook hands. Then, motioning to the empty seats around the table, Andrew called over the barmaid to bring more pints.

Collins surreptitiously pushed out Farrier’s chair with his foot so it would be easier for him to sit as he took his own place across the table. Farrier nodded gratefully in his direction while surveying the pub. Letting him adjust, Collins turned back to Andrew for a moment. “Where’s Mrs. Caird?” Collins had never known Grace to miss time in the pub; she could hold her own against any man in a drinking contest and had often bested Andrew, which he loved. She was a fiery women with hair to match.

Andrew grinned as he took another sip of his beer. “Grace is with Mrs. Reid. She’ll be having our next little one any day now.”

Collins hadn’t thought his surprise was too obvious until Andrew clapped him on the back, chortling. “I’m already on two and you haven’t even a wife. You should catch up before you’re too old.” Although he sounded like he was joking, there was enough pressure in his sharp eyes to tip a tank.

“You sound like my gran,” Collins jested uneasily, followed by a sideways glance at Farrier. Farrier touched his knee under the table, brief enough to be a mistake, reassuring enough to be deliberate. Collins said, “There’s plenty of time now that I’m home.”

Andrew smiled. “Some of these birds won’t be free for long, Finlay.” He pointed subtly at the barmaid weaving their way, her black tresses tied up in a practical braid.

“Morning, Ann,” Collins greeted her politely. “Thomas, this is Ann Wilson. Ann, Thomas Farrier.”

Ann looked at the cane, pushed a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, and leaned down to kiss Farrier’s cheek instead of expecting him to stand and kiss hers. Farrier exhaled into a surprised albeit grateful grunt that made her giggle.

“Me mam told me she wishes you’d visit more often, Fin. I think she’s going to break to the roof again so you’ll come fix it.”

Farrier bristled when she said _Fin._ Collins resisted squeezing his hand. “Well, ah, we certainly don’ want that.

Giggling, she put her hand on his wrist and asked, “Why don’t you come for lunch? Mr. Farrier, Mr. Caird, you’re welcome to our table as well, of course.”

“I don’t think--” Farrier began. Collins kicked at his good knee under the table. “I don’t think I would miss it,” he corrected, forcing a smile.

“Cannae, sorry lass.” Andrew raised his glass as he declined.

Since it was expected, Ann tilted her chin gracefully and then swept past them to serve her other patrons as they called for more beer. The few that were still unmarried complimented Ann in a chorus when she put their drinks down, and Andrew gave Farrier a pointed look. He ignored it. Rather, he was more preoccupied with Farrier’s hand on his leg again, no longer a brief touch, no longer as low as his knee. He wasn’t even sure Farrier was doing it intentionally, but his thumb was sliding back and forth over Collins’ thigh as he scowled after Ann. Her certainly didn’t mind, but the tables weren’t that low. If anyone looked over… Collins shook his leg, and Farrier hastily pulled his hand away.

Farrier stared down at the table, his eyes blank and unfocused. His shoulders tensed and pulled in, helping him retreat into himself, to close himself off from Collins.

Vaguely, Collins registered that the conversation had gone on around them. Andrew’s voice reached his ears in slow motion, blurred, dragging as if he was speaking from underwater. Collins himself felt very much like he was beneath those waves, choking on saltwater and completely helpless as he watched Farrier crumble across from him.

Andrew stood suddenly and Collins blinked away the haze. “Well, I’ve got to piss,” he announced cheekily.

When he had left the table, Collins leaned forward and asked, “What’s the matter?” even though he knew full well. Some part of him thrilled at the idea of Farrier saying it in front of all these people. The other part of him froze with fear. Of losing his secret, of losing Farrier, he did not know.

Farrier almost looked like he was going to laugh. He did scoff, a short, bitter sound that caught Collins off guard. Farrier cleared his throat and Collins realized his eyes were shining. Without a word, he pushed away from the table to stand, wincing at the stiffness of his leg as he made his way to the bar. He ordered a scotch.

“How many Gerrys did you kill?”

Collins head whipped up so fast it twinged. He rubbed the sore spot it as he looked to where a boy had sat on the stool next to Farrier, the question still shaping his mouth as he awaited a response. Farrier’s grip was so tight on the glass that Collins thought it might shatter.

“You fought, didn’t you?”

“...Yes.”

“He’s RAF, like me, so let him finish his drink and I’ll--” Collins tried to intervene, but was silenced by the shouts of approval from young men who had not fought in the war. They had been too young when it started to be drafted and only knew war as a glorious thing, an adventure, an honorable sacrifice. They had played soldiers in the streets as children, with their fake guns and their dead bodies that could run inside for supper when their names were called. They knew nothing.

“ _So_ ,” the kid pressed, “how many Gerrys did you kill?”

Farrier ordered another scotch, grimaced, and answered. “Not enough.”

Amazed and buzzing with excitement, the kid made a sound that wanted to be an impressed whistle but fell flat from all the alcohol he’d consumed. Waving at his buddies from across the pub, he made a flying motion with his arms, sloshing beer around. They cheered. He pointed at Farrier and mimed being a pilot again. Then, he started imitating a machine gun.

“Take that! And that!” he shouted, doing his absolute best to remind the other patrons of his youth. “Boom!” He fell backwards off his seat, cackling. “He’s got me!” the kid moaned, and then laid across the floor, completely still, gurgling into his melodramatic death.

Farrier stood so quickly he knocked the barstool over. A hush fell over the pub as they watched him apologize to the bartender, pick it back up, and pay for his last drink. He gulped it down. The boy on the floor stared. Slowly, Farrier passed him as well as the crowd of drunk, war-hungry boys, and made his way into the cold. Collins was frozen for too long. The boys were whispering amongst one another, their words mixed with anger, confusion, guilt, and scorn all at once.

Collins’ stomach churned as he took off after Farrier, tripping over his own feet and barreling into newcomers as they hurried inside. “Thomas!” he yelled as soon as he breathed in icy air. He heard the unmistakable sound of fists connecting with something solid. Sprinting around the pub’s corner, he found Farrier doubled over, knees sinking into the snow, bloodied knuckles stark red against white. His breaths were as uneven as a dying engine.

Falling to his knees beside Farrier, Collins reached out his arms, but they stuck uselessly in midair. He wondered what good it would do, what he should even do, too accustomed to Iain negotiating with a shotgun to know what the proper response was. So he settled on just repeating Farrier’s name again and again until his breathing leveled. Then, carefully, Collins slid his fingers over Farrier’s shoulder.

Farrier shoved Collins’ arm off of his shoulder. He stood and faced him. Collins, feeling selfish, couldn’t decide which was worse; Farrier’s eyes moments ago having not known him, or Farrier’s eyes now burning into him with such fury that he flinched.

“Aren’t you worried someone will see?” he snarled.

“Thomas, I--”

Farrier might as well have punched him. He stumbled back, arms held in front of him like he was defending himself from another blow. Farrier almost looked like he might reach for him, but at the last moment let his arm fall and left Collins alone in the snow.

Collins slammed his back against the wall and stifled a scream of frustration with his mouth pressed against his arm. Farrier was far out of sight by the time Collins went back inside the pub, but the blood from his knuckles was bright against the brick.

He sat with Andrew--the woodcarver forcing happiness, ever the optimist--until the he left, and then he sat alone until the pub emptied. Ann met him by the bar and he helped her into her coat wordlessly, feeling a little numb. Then he felt rude for taking it out on her and rambled while he opened the door, “Thomas can’t leave the house right now. I, er, know he was here in the pub earlier but the walk here, well, his knee’s bad today, and he needed to rest, so you’ve just got me, alone, sorry.”

She waved away his chatter and pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. “Don’ trouble yourself. I know why he left. Those boys shouldn’t have done that.”

“Thank you.” Collins sighed.

Ann scrunched her nose at him and ruffled his hair. “My granda served with yours, and I know what it can do to you.” She looked down for a moment, catching her breath. Collins wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her in for a brief side-hug. Her grandfather had hanged himself when she’d been just old enough to remember, just young enough to not have gotten enough time with him. Collins released her and she smiled.

“Come on, I phoned mam earlier, she’ll have food on the table by now.”

They made their way to the Wilson house slowly, careful to avoid icy patches. Collins promised to take her skating sometime later in the week and she promised to teach him all the new tricks she had learned while he was at war.

Mrs. Wilson descended upon him as soon as he was in the door; she took his coat, handed him tea, and ushered him into the living room. He put the tea down almost immediately and helped Mrs. Wilson and Ann set the table, avoiding the conversation he knew Mr. Wilson wanted to have. They laughed and he said it was only polite and then they sat, Mr. Wilson at the head of the table, his wife to his left, his daughter to his right. Collins was expected to sit next to Ann, so he did. He tried to ignore the pleased, victorious look on Mrs. Wilson’s face.

The whole meal was much more relaxed than Collins had anticipated. Over Shepherd's pie they remembered childhood stories, talked about the village, and planned extravagant trips to the United States never to be realized. Ann, for all her positivity, deflated somewhat when her parents said they could never imagine leaving Oxton. Collins touched her elbow consolingly. She immediately brightened again, and remained in high spirits through dessert--clootie dumpling and tea, of course.

“Ann, why don’t you clear the table, dear? Your father and I would like to speak to Finlay for a moment in the study. We won’t be long.”

Ann, unable to conceal her smile or speak, ducked her head and grabbed as many dishes as she could before hurrying over to the sink. She did this a few times before Mr. Wilson stood to escort Collins and his wife from the room. Collins had to rescue his teacup from her before she could knock it over in her excitement. Ann blushed furiously and just took what remained of the clootie instead. Collins held his cup like it might prevent what he knew was about to happen. He gave a weak smile and followed Mr. Wilson from the room, the man’s hand on his shoulder a confident guide.

Mrs. Wilson sat in her reading chair. She held out her hand, palm up, and inclined her head to indicate that Collins should take his place on the couch across from her. The mounting pressure in his chest made him feel nauseous. Dread filled Collins’ body, pitting deep in his stomach. He sipped his tea nervously.

“I’m sure ye know why we’ve asked ye over,” Mrs. Wilson began, her emerald-green eyes bright. Mr. Wilson stepped around her chair to stand behind his wife, his hand on her shoulder. She reached up to grab it, and Collins felt a shock of pain through his stomach.

_Collins was sitting in the cockpit of his spitfire. She had just come back from repairs, and she was grounded for a little white. He was sitting in her on the runway anyway; it had been Farrier’s idea, of course. Farrier, who was sitting on the wing, saying nothing. Collins had reached down to touch his shoulder so he could get his attention. Farrier had acknowledged him by sliding his hand over his and leaving it there. “Do you ever think we could have more than this?” He’d asked._ What more would I need, _Collins had thought_ , than you and this plane?

“I do,” he managed to reply, still reeling. He realized he had to get out of that room as soon as possible. The air felt too thick. His eyes burned. _What more would I need?_ He put his teacup down. “And--”

Mrs. Wilson interrupted cheerfully, “You two have been so good for each other. Since she was a wee lass our girl has had eyes for ye. That hasn’t changed. She loves you, Finlay, and we think you could to. We’re askin’ ye if you’ll marry her because we trust ye and love ye dearly.”

Collins breathed. Collins breathed, and he waited.

“Will you marry our Ann, Finlay?”

“No.”

Mrs. Wilson frowned. “I beg your pardon?” Her hand clutched the cross she wore around her neck. She looked as if Collins had slapped her.

Mr. Wilson sat up straighter. Some of the warmth in his eyes retreated. “I’m not a man who likes to repeat my questions.”

“Then don’t.” Mr. Wilson took immediate offense, so Collins sighed and softened his refusal with, “I _can’t_ marry her.”

Mr. Wilson shook his head. “That sort of thing, son,” he began--with such contempt that Collins, who had known and respected the man his whole life, flinched--, “was a choice ye made during the war. But the war’s over now and there’s no room for such nonsense. Your father would say the same if he were here today. You’re a grown man, Finlay!”

Collins could have told him he didn’t know what he was implying. It was easy; he’d said it before, to other pilots in his squadron or friends at university. Instead, he replied evenly, “I’m not your son, _sir_.”

Mrs. Wilson gasped. She held her hand over her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes. Collins felt a sting of regret, but not one strong enough to change his mind. He stood. “I love him,” he growled through his teeth. Hand shaking, he pointed at Mr. Wilson and said with as much malice as he could muster, “Do not _ever_ presume my father would say something like that to me. I did not know Thomas before the war but I knew _plenty_ of others. During the war, after the war. And I’ve made no choice but not to fear loving him.”

“I could have you arrested,” Mr. Wilson spat.

Collins laughed, almost giddy. “You won’t.”

He didn’t slam the study door on his way out; it didn’t seem right. Ann was waiting patiently at the bottom of the stairs, not close enough to have heard anything, but close enough to tell Collins was upset when she saw him. She jumped up, all the hope gone from her face. Collins pulled her into a hug. “I can’t be your husband, Ann,” he told her. He kissed her cheek. He knew she was crying when he let her go, but he did not look back to comfort her.

Collins took off in a sprint as soon as his foot hit the cobblestone. It was the second Wednesday in February. He’d had Farrier for just over a month, and he’d already almost lost him again. He chastised himself as he ran--he’d never even really had him. But it was time to fix that.

His grandparents’ house was on the opposite side of the village. The winter air made his chest burn, but he did not slow until he was inside.

“Where is he?” he asked his grandfather after searching the house and finding out Iain was the only one home. Iain, startled, put down his shotgun and rubbed his cheek.

“He came back without you hours ago. He seemed out of sorts, mind you, so I sent him up to see my plane, thought maybe it would calm him down--”

Collins was out the door and shouting his thanks before his grandfather had finished talking.  He didn’t feel the cold on his skin, but his lungs ached and his breath clouded while he ran, and he could feel the wind stinging his exposed face. When Collins--panting for breath--reached the barn, Farrier was leaning against the side of the plane, his palm and forehead pressed into it.

Suddenly, Collins couldn’t think of what to say. He’d had so much planned-- _I love you_ to start--and found his mouth dry and his thoughts blank. He stood there, breathing and watching, until Farrier moved. He did not, however, turn toward Collins; instead, he kept his back to him and moved his hand along the plane, following the stripes Iain had painted there so many years ago. He stopped when he reached the wing.

“I think it’s time I leave.” Farrier rapped his knuckles against the plane’s wing and smiled ruefully. “Time I let you go.”

Collins felt the sinking, hopeless fear of drowning. He gritted his teeth against it and said forcefully, “No,” the pain of it enough to drag him from his silence.

Farrier stepped closer. He was at the edge of the barn now, still inside while Collins was out. Snow dusted Collins’ head and shoulders.

Shaking, Collins raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve been a fool,” he said, and took a breath to keep from crying. “I’ve been a fool, and so afraid, and for no reason that matters. And I’m sorry for that. And I--”

Farrier was staring at him.

“What?”

“Your eyes look so blue. Bluer than the sky. It’s beautiful,” Farrier said, almost breathlessly. He reached a hand out to touch Collins’ face and Collins turned his cheek into his palm, closing his eyes. Something felt like it burst in his chest, and he swallowed down tears he couldn’t explain as his chest heaved. Blindly, he stretched his arm out, needing to touch Farrier. Farrier stepped forward so that Collins’ hand pressed firmly against his chest. Even through the layers of winter clothing Collins could feel his heartbeat.

“I loved you.” Farrier traced Collins’ bottom lip with his thumb. “But I think you knew that.”

Collins opened his eyes. His throat tight, he whispered, “We were in love during the war. Are we in love now?”

“I’m not the same as I used to be.”

Collins almost laughed. Farrier, stubborn and cocky and beautiful as ever. Farrier, broken, whole, pieced together with care. “You’re just a different version of you.” Collins gripped Farrier’s coat and pulled him forward. He pressed their lips close, not enough for a kiss, just a ghost of a touch. “I can love every version of you just the same.”

It was the easiest thing in the world, suddenly, to close the distance between them, the presence of which now seemed so absurd.  They kissed carefully, not hesitant but slow enough not to miss a single moment. 

Farrier broke away first, yet he lingered, their foreheads touching and their noses knocking. He curled his hands around the back of Collins’ neck like he could possibly bring him closer, like they weren’t curved into each other’s bodies and holding one another up. When he smiled, Collins felt Farrier's mouth move against his own.

“Then do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We decided you've all been patient enough! The slow burn was killing us too, ha. But really, you've all been wonderful. We're so sorry that it took so long to get this chapter up. It's a longer one, though, which doesn't make up for the delay but hopefully will keep you busy until we can get the next one out (which will more than likely be after the holidays--sorry, but we do have lives to attend to). As always, don't hesitate to send us an ask on daughtersofthanos.tumblr.com if you want to talk about this fic or Collins and Farrier or even Dunkirk in general! Please also check out this GORGEOUS piece of art we commissioned: http://daughtersofthanos.tumblr.com/post/168255754503/daughtersofthanos-flurgburgler-collins-and ! The artist deserves all your love. And yeah, I'm going to shamelessly link the aesthetic again. http://daughtersofthanos.tumblr.com/post/168255707508/daughtersofthanos-fanfiction-aesthetics-5
> 
> Love you all! Where we are it's time to say good night, so I guess... Good night!


	7. INTERLUDE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was supposed to be chapter seven was really not coming along the way we wanted it to. Rather than keeping everyone waiting for so much longer, we have decided to give you this instead. This is a chapter from Farrier's POV, set during the time between the end of Dunkirk and the start of our fic--when he was a prisoner of war. ***We are not adding these warnings to the tags because they do not apply for any of the other chapters, but please know: this chapter includes incredibly graphic violence/gore, gun violence, the murder of children, references to torture, starvation, implied rape (NOT of Farrier), Antisemitism, and imprisonment. If these are in any way triggering, DO NOT feel like you have to read this chapter. This is meant to fill in gaps and explain some things, but nothing that will deeply impact your understanding or appreciation of the story as a whole.

Only one thing had gone through Farrier’s mind when he landed his plane. He did not fear capture, or death, or being left on that beach. He was simply content knowing that he had saved others from those fates. That he had saved Collins from that fate as well was, in his most selfish, private thoughts, one of his greatest accomplishments. These together were his sole comforts for the years to come.

The heat of the fire followed him as he was led away by the Germans. They did not speak in proud voices. Tense and fearful in their position of failure, they spoke in grating, disgusted tones as they shoved the muzzles of their guns into his back. Farrier knew enough German to surmise that they were not going to kill him. _Yet_ , one of them said.

 _No, not yet_.

Farrier thought his captors might march him all the way to his final destination, or perhaps drag him behind a car until he fell. Instead, they walked him a short distance and loaded him into their vehicle like he was cargo: hands and ankles bound, he curled onto his side when a gun prodded him too roughly in the stomach. He made no sound. They would not have that satisfaction.

“ _Er ist stark._ ”

“ _Nicht für lange_!” They all laughed, bolstered somewhat by this assurance. The man who had first called Farrier strong nodded vigorously.

“Wir werden sehen, Schwein.” _We will see, pig._ Farrier did not spit though he wanted to, and rolled to stare at the roof of the truck. He heard laughter and half-impressed whistles before the butt of a rifle knocked him unconscious.

When he woke, Farrier was no longer inside the truck. His head throbbed. He tried to raise his hand to touch the bump he knew would be there, but his hands were still tied together, the twine cutting into his skin. He thought it was useless considering he’d surrendered without a fight, but didn’t share this with the soldiers who poked at one another and pointed at him as his eyes focused on them and their small fire. A few of them threw handfuls of dirt in Farrier’s direction. Some spit, cursed. He stared blankly back.

The remainder of the trip farther inland was similar. Farrier was unconscious more often than not; the most he knew was that he was still somewhere in France. Eventually he was also joined by more prisoners of war. They were all stuffed into one truck, or made to walk when the Germans preferred. A few, the skinniest of the group, fell and did not stand again. Farrier stepped over their bodies and tried to appear unaffected. He would not show weakness in front of these soldiers. They were like hawks, searching for it. If they found a hint of fear--which they often did in the younger men, more boys than anything else--they exploited it mercilessly, using taunts and beatings until they were leading ghosts along the roads.

Although guards marched at the back and front of the line, the middle was open, and that was where talks of breaking free began. They were whispers at first, nervous and incoherent, until bolder men joined. Farrier caught snatches of doomed plans, plans discussed down to the minute details but abandoned _just_ before execution. “Next time,” a soldier would say, or, “Wasn’t the right moment,” and his comrades would nod resolutely.

They marched during the day and slept in fitful four-hour increments at night. Farrier’s feet started to sting first, then his eyes. He felt blood soaking into his socks where his boots rubbed off layers of skin in farthing-sized blisters. Around him, men started to grunt and complain, shaking their feet or wincing when walking over particularly rough terrain. Keeping his head down, Farrier gritted his teeth through it. No doubt there would be hell to pay if they kept it up.

The next soldier who spoke out of turn received a rifle shot to the mouth. In an admirable display of camaraderie and idealism, the highlander to Farrier’s left dashed out and punched the executing officer square in the jaw. Frenzied shouting in various languages rang in the air until knuckles hit bone, and then everything stopped, even the morning birdsong. The German and the highlander both stared in disbelief at the highlander’s hand. His skin had split open with the force of it, and already a bruise blossomed against the German’s fair skin. Soon, however, the shock faded, and the mania of his eyes gave Farrier chills; the boy transformed into a near-replica of his revered chancellor, frothing and all, as he pressed his thumbs into the highlander’s eyes.

Farrier couldn’t look away.

The gruesome image stuck with enough of the prisoners that the next day passed without incident. At least, that’s what the Germans thought; Farrier knew the murder was only fuel to flame, enough that someone was ready to burst. There was no smart way to do it, though. Their band hadn’t passed a house in hours. When they did, it was abandoned.

Dark and dusty, the little house had been looted for all its worth. Only upturned furniture and broken glass lingered, remnants of a family that had harbored something of value--there were bullets in the floor’s wooden panels suggesting their final hiding place. The whole place was rife with the stench of rot, worsened by the rats that scurried over leftover food. Farrier watched one run fearfully into its hole.

One German grunted, “Sleep,” and then made a face as if he wasn’t sure that had been the correct word. “Ja?” he continued, and then threw in some snoring sounds. It would have been comical in another situation, and a tommy did laugh. The German’s nostrils flared and he shoved the private to the ground.

Farrier and the rest of the prisoners took this as their cue to lie down. With their hands still bound, they slept on their backs or sides. Many of the men cried, even after the Germans on watch took to taunting them. Farrier tossed around fitfully, too hungry to sleep but too exhausted to stay awake. Not content with only those two options, his body found a purgatory of nightmares as a third.

 

 

_There’s nothing as soothing as the purr of a spitfire engine. There’s nothing as jarring as the complete absence of one, of any noise at all, after years spent on an air base or in the cockpit. Farrier’s arms and legs are tied tight to a fence post. He sits, legs cramped, seeing ocean and sand and realizing with a sick dread that he never made it off of Dunkirk._

 

 _Suddenly, Collins appears. He whoops upon seeing Farrier. Farrier smiles, and it hurts his sunburnt face, but it doesn’t matter, Collins is here, they’re here,_ together _\--_

 

_A faceless German slams his rifle into Collins’ abdomen. Collins falls, gasping, still crawling to Farrier. Farrier screams. The sound is lost on the wind. The German straddles Collins, smirking, and then jams his thumbs into Collins’ eyes._

 

_Farrier struggles wildly. The ropes break and he dashes out, only to find himself transported, knees tucked around Collins’ sides, fingers dripping with the blood running from the mangled face of the man he loves._

 

 

Farrier gasped as he started awake, sitting up and knocking his head into the table leg. He recoiled and rolled away, knocking into a bookshelf and sending something made of glass crashing to the floor, the sound echoing through the small space. But soldiers were used to these sounds and slept easily. Only the guards looked apprehensive, but when they noticed Farrier on the floor, shaking, they laughed it off and went back to their cigarettes and deck of cards. Farrier sighed deeply and stared at the ceiling. He remained awake into dawn.

A new regiment met the previous escorts and took over their charge. This group was more highly-decorated, and frustrated words were exchanged about the situation at Dunkirk during the transfer. There were also less soldiers, but it hardly mattered; even the thirty or so of them together were too weak to overpower sixteen armed and healthy Germans. They piled into their new transports obediently.

A fallen tree in the road forced them into the woods some days later. The return to walking was worse than Farrier imagined it could have been. He blinked, trying to ignore the gnawing in his stomach. The ground beneath him spun. He had not eaten properly for more than five days. The bread was stale, and the water he had been given still tasted of salt sometimes, as if hastily boiled and thrown to the prisoners without a care if it killed them. He supposed, really, that it would not matter if more of them died; more than a quarter of the men he had been with since the long journey to Germany began were now rotting somewhere behind him. His legs ached to stop. His knees buckled slightly as his body weighed the benefits of hitting the ground and found they outweighed walking. Farrier tightened his jaw against a scream and kept on. He ignored his stinging, bleeding feet. He ignored his sunburnt neck. He ignored his dry eyes and thinning frame and dry throat. It was better not to complain; it was better to walk on.

The new regiment thought Farrier mute. He did nothing to prove them wrong until one evening, when the sun was almost out of the sky and the stars were anticipating their entrance, that almost got him killed. They were still in France when it happened. Farrier would never forget the screams in that language for as long as lived.

He had heard some of the Germans leading himself and the other prisoners on their march talk of a ‘Jewish problem.’ Of exterminating them, of rounding them up. He did not understand the full extent of it until he saw it. They reached a train station that was controlled by the Germans at dusk. Their group was separated from another set of people, people easily recognizable as civilians. Wearing worn scarves and thin shoes, they huddled together holding very few or no possessions; many of them were crying, or clutching one another and speaking in harried voices. Farrier stared until he was ordered not to, but even then continued to glance in the direction of the French villagers.

Their train arrived before the one Farrier and the other prisoners were to take. Most of them stepped onto it with resignation. The women clutched each other’s hands and wrung their hems while some of the men put up a decent fight before being beaten or shot. Farrier ducked involuntarily when the first shot rang off. When the smoke from it cleared, a boy no older than six was lying on the platform, blood seeping from his chest. The deep red contrasted vividly to his pale shirt, so old that it could have been blue once but was an odd off-white now. He gurgled once and then fell still. A woman, presumably his mother, shrieked as she fought to reach him. The baby she held in her arms wailed at the same high, hysterical pitch as its mother. A German soldier, apparently incensed by the cries, tore the infant from her viciously. He smiled--at her, at it, maybe at himself--and threw it with all his strength to the ground beside the boy.

Farrier flinched. When he was finally able to react, he let out a deep growl of fury and stepped forward, intent on killing every German he could get his hands on no matter what happened to him. But he barely made it three feet before he felt a bullet pierce his foot, sending him to his knees on the floor. Suppressing a howl of pain, he tried to stand, but the motion was useless. Two German soldiers laughed, and before Farrier could defend himself, they fell upon him. One crushed his hand in a strong, quick stomp; the other kicked him hard enough to break multiple ribs. He went slack with the pain, all the breath gone and his foot on fire. The Germans picked Farrier up by his arms and hauled him away from the platform. Clutching at his internal injuries as if he could mend them from the outside, he fell into his train compartment face-first. He passed out within the hour.

Farrier’s time on the train was blurred. He was given enough medical attention to survive without an infection--having almost reached his final destination, the Germans had used too many resources on Farrier, who was also too strong and thus too valuable, to resort to killing him for insubordination--but nothing to manage the pain. Fever and nausea were Farrier’s constant companions on his way into Germany. He was not even sure when it was they reached the country. The border was clear enough in the high afternoon sun, but Farrier had lost track of the days after weeks of marching; not to mention the lost time spent unconscious. He almost laughed when he saw farming wagons waiting in the German camp outside the makeshift train station. He would not even be kept here, tortured and then killed for information he didn’t have. He was to be no more than a laboring slave.

The prisoners were unloaded and directed toward various new lives. Some, like Farrier, were sent to the wagons and a life of field labor, while others were piled into another truck, most likely destined for the cities and factory work. Farrier was actually glad to find himself tied and directed into a dusty, uncovered wagon. Legs cramping as it trudged toward its destination, Farrier spent his time studying the landscape. The grass was poor and sparse; the majority of the area was likely dirt during the day, but at that moment it was all mud.  Rain turned the sky navy blue as they approached the farmland. Farrier let it fall upon him in a daze. His body ached so strongly that he was shocked to still be alive. The rain was certainly no reprieve, soaking through every layer of already soiled clothing right into his skin. He could feel its chill in the very marrow of his bones. Keeping himself awake was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

Farrier was unaccustomed to feeling--to being--so weak. Though he had no mirror, he imagined his appearance was similar to the two other Englishmen chosen to accompany him. Their eyes sank deep into their skulls, the skin around them as dry, cracked, and red as their lips. Little resistance or hope remained in their eyes. They were composed of flat colors and exhaustion, rimmed with dark circles. Every man had sun blisters on his uncovered neck and face. They looked like rusty machines in the downpour.

It was far too dark to make much of the farm when they arrived, but Farrier was certain it was sizable. He and the two other men joined a group of at least ten others in a small, barracks-like enclosure. Though his muscles protested to the climb, quavering even when he lifted his hand, Farrier claimed a top bunk close to a window. Staring at the sky until his eyes closed, he imagined Collins dreaming soundly in the bed beneath him as he drifted off to sleep.

The first year was the most difficult. Farrier was too proud to submit to the demands made of him in the field; even the armed guards around the farm property did not persuade him to fall in line. Only when they began to threaten the lives of those he eventually called his friends did he stop. But the fire in him lingered. The rage and recalcitrance were enough that he hardly went a day without a fresh bruise somewhere on his body. He channeled the resentment from that into his work on the farm, hoping each day that such dedication might earn him an early reprieve--or maybe at least a pack of cigarettes.

His time gave him few comforts, so he made those himself. _Collins is alive somewhere. He’s safe._ Farrier held onto that truth with unwavering dedication. His captors did their best to knock out the glimmer of optimism they saw within Farrier, though if they had known the cause, they would have realized their actions were useless. After a long year of torment, they sought enjoyment elsewhere; no delight could be gained from a man who had a reason not to break.

The German soldiers who regularly spent time on the farm couldn’t be bothered to do much with their long-term prisoners after a while. In Farrier’s third year as a prisoner of war, he already knew some of them by name, and was often invited to play chess or cards on late nights. He learned German. And he did get his cigarettes.

He did his part of course, smiling through their jokes and talking luridly about women; he would not make the mistake of giving himself away. When the Germans had discovered two of their prisoners in bed together, the entire barrack was woken up to both of them being dragged outside. Only one of them returned, limping, blood running down his thighs. Farrier had not slept any more that night.

An alarm blared all around him. Farrier vaulted out of bed and stood, fists up. The guy in the adjacent bunk did the same. They looked at each other. Then they looked at the barracks, dark and full of groggy men lining up for a count. Farrier followed his bunkmate hesitantly. Guttural German words, too fast for Farrier to discern completely, arrived in the room before the soldiers did. Their faces were as sour and mean as their language.

“What are they saying?”

“I’m not sure,” Farrier whispered. “Something about ‘them’ being in this bunk…” He trailed off, his body going cold. Knees shaking, he stood at attention and evened his breathing.

Sweaty hands clasped his wrists, binding him. Around him, every soldier was similarly bound. Quickly and efficiently they were all marched outside, where dawn had just broken. Golden light washed the otherwise dismal farm. In the distance, though not nearly far enough, two shadowy figures bolted over the uneven ground, slow from starvation yet hastened by terror.

Farrier glanced around. Missing from their party were the two longtime residents Jack and Caleb, two Brits that had his group’s counsel. They were going to be forced to watch the men’s execution, Farrier realized as they were all ordered onto their knees.

 _“Steady,”_ a grinning guard murmured as he crouched and sat his rifle on Farrier’s shoulder. Farrier gulped. He dug his fingernails into his palms and bit his tongue.

Farrier was a soldier. He knew the sound of gunfire. That close to his ear, however, he _felt_ it; the click and the release and the spray of gunpowder against his cheek. For what seemed like ages a sound like an engine’s combustion echoed in his head until it faded and left him with a high, ceaseless hum. His ears ringing, Farrier slowly brought his hand to his face. He could smell his own hair burning. He did not dare move, though, unlike the man to his left, who clasped his hands over his ears immediately. Even semi-deaf from the shot, Farrier heard the response to this: the German soldier lifted his rifle to the man’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

Farrier felt blood, skin, and hair clinging to the entire left side of his head. He was sure the blood at least covered his neck and shoulder, too, but his face was where the sensation was strongest. The soldier who had taken the shot loved the sight of it and leaned down to lick the side of Farrier’s face, a clean line of blood coming off on his tongue. Even his comrades looked away. Laughing heartily, the man let loose a few rounds into the sky, making a show of it by imitating an American Western movie. This earned hesitant praise from his friends, which made him smile again. His teeth were stained scarlet.

Farrier knew he would reek of death for days no matter how quickly he could wash off the remains of the other man.

A German general shouted quick orders, and then his men split off and rallied their prisoners into three separate groups. They shoved at stragglers with their hands and guns. Farrier could barely keep his eyes open, but he followed the path to which he was pointed. Anyone who stumbled and fell soon found himself struggling to cover his head and stomach as blow upon blow landed on his ribs, face, groin. Farrier kept his face neutral.

One British tommy fell, gave a final, pitiful yelp, and was still. The German above him sighed, disappointed, before kicking him again and spitting on his corpse. Then, with a sickening grin and a chuckle to match, he undid his belt buckle and pissed into the kid’s open mouth. Farrier had to be dragged away.

In the summer of 1944, Farrier became certain he was going to die a prisoner of war.

This realization that had been gradually working its way into his mind gained clarity with a sudden ferocity that caused him to sit up in bed so quickly he slammed his head on the rafters. Rubbing the sore spot, he laid back down and was hit with such profound nausea that he jumped off his bunk and ran to the washroom to wretch. The wood was ice against his bare feet. Gritting his teeth, Farrier stripped off his shirt and laid face-down on the floor, hissing at the cold. _I will not die here_ , he thought, breathing the night air. Then he repeated it aloud, the words renewing his sense of determination.

He spent the next year thinking of very little but escape. Observing the type of frequent visitors to the site, he surmised that they were near either a body of water or some sort of fishing village; this meant there were boats close by and open waters to put them in. One German soldier always helped to unload the wagons brought by the fishermen. If he could obtain a uniform, he could likely steal the wagon.

If that did not work, his options only became more unlikely. Jack and Caleb had already demonstrated the results of simply running. Causing a full revolution within the ranks of the prisoners felt similarly futile. At worst, the owner of the farm had a daughter: she was not around often, and although Farrier disliked the idea, if he could find a weapon he could threaten her and trade her for some type of safety. But he did not trust the Germans enough to not shoot him the minute he released her, either.

As the days passed and spring slowly turned into summer, he noticed the guard presence thinning. Perhaps the Germans were losing the war and needed more men. He hoped desperately that this was true, and chose to take his chance in the late August of 1945.

Farrier moved as surely as he did when flying his Spitfire. There was no room for error, no room for hesitation. Abandoning his plot of land, he made of show of going to get water without permission and smiled when a guard followed. It was one of the men he played cards with. He stood a few feet from Farrier while he splashed water over his face, muttering about how Farrier was lucky he was well-liked. His was completely blindsided when Farrier slipped his arm around his neck and pulled him behind the well. Farrier felt nothing as he watched the life slip from the man’s eyes.

He pulled on the German uniform--it was too small in the shoulders, stiffening his movements--and resumed the man’s post to avoid suspicion. The other soldiers were too far away to notice the swap.

When the supply wagon arrived, Farrier was closest. A part of him wondered how long ago he could have done this, how many months and years he had wasted being a coward. He shook it off and walked forward.

He helped the fisherman unload; there was no use making the prisoners go hungry for his escape. It was all too easy afterward to slip the German’s knife into his stomach. Blood poured onto his hands and Farrier wiped them on the other man’s uniform. Then he discarded the body haphazardly. He knew hiding it would only slow him down, and expected the other guards to have seen the murder anyway. Sure enough, he felt a bullet whiz past his shoulder and ducked into the wagon. Snapping the reins, Farrier whistled the horse to action and braced himself as the wagon lurched forward and away, bullets burying into the wood and sending splinters into the air. Each hole in the wagon’s frame sped his heartbeat until he could hardly breathe.

The horse knew the path better than Farrier and raced along it with certainty. This gave Farrier time to twist and aim his stolen pistol at the vehicles pursuing him. It wasn’t much, but he managed to get a clean shot at one of the drivers and sent the Kübelwagen to a chaotic halt, leaving only one more pursuer.

Farrier turned back around so he could urge the horse to move faster, wishing more than anything for a plane, for the feel of an engine and the security of the cockpit and Collins’ voice in his ear. Instead, moments later he found himself sprawled in the mud, the wagon useless, its front wheel in pieces after being torn apart by a shotgun. One piece was lodged deep in his abdomen. Farrier could not feel the wound yet. He scrambled blindly for cover and used what bullets he had left to try to stall the oncoming soldiers, shakily wiping sweat and grime from his eyes. Once he was out of bullets, he just threw the gun, a frustrated scream tearing out of his lungs.

The village was in sight. He could run, but he could never outrun the Kübelwagen. The horse was alive but panicking, and Farrier was not keen on getting kicked in the face, or getting shot in the process of untangling the beast. Digging his hands into the mud, Farrier hissed in pain when he felt something sharp dig into the flesh of his hand.

He looked down. White rocks littered the ground, growing larger and sharper for some feet before disappearing into open space. Farrier realized with giddy shock that he was on a cliff. The length of the drop couldn’t be ascertained from his position, but open water was visible, along with what looked like boats farther out. He looked back at the speeding vehicle and thought it would be better to take his chances with the free-fall. With one deep, heavy breath, Farrier mustered all his strength, ducked out from behind the wagon, and sprinted.

When he hit the cliff’s edge, he jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know this chapter is not necessarily what was expected, but we want to make sure what is now chapter 8 is the best it can be. Thank you all for being so patient!


	8. Love and Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you who have stuck with us to the end.

Farrier sighed and smoothed his hand over Collins’ chest. “The rest of it is… not very clear for me.” His eyebrows furrowed as he searched through hazy memories. “I know I managed to swim for a while, and I stole a fishing boat. I was picked up by a British ship… They told me they were carrying wounded soldiers from a battle on the coast of Denmark, so I was sent to Leeds with the lot of them.” Clutching at Collins’ hand, he gulped, added, “The only thing I really remember, though, is waking up in a hospital in more pain than I’d ever imagined.” He whispered the last part as if retelling it could break him all over again.

Collins shook with something between rage and relief when Farrier finished. He pulled Farrier closer against his chest, not sure what to do but hold the man he loved if he couldn’t march into Germany and kill every single one of those Nazi bastards. He hoped they had all died slow deaths for what they did. Slow, and excruciating.

Farrier hummed; he knew what Collins was thinking. “The war’s over now.”

“They’re still rounding them up.”

“I don’t want any part in that.” His voice was flat, resolute.

Collins didn’t, either. He was tired of the bullet holes and fear and orders and hiding. He nodded, placing his hand over the scar hiding under Farrier’s shirt. Collins could feel the ridges and edges of it even beneath those winter layers. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to slide his hand beneath that fabric, trace the raised lines with his fingertips, perhaps his tongue. He kissed Farrier again, still marveling at the way they fit so perfectly together. His favorite part of kissing Farrier was how it seemed they had never _not_ kissed each other before, like it was something they had known how to do all their lives and just hadn’t gotten around to yet.

They were in Collins’ bed, bundled in layers of sweaters and blankets. They had spent far too long at the barn, nothing but harsh winds and snow to keep them company as they made up for all the days and years spent not touching one another. Collins had barely lasted a minute with Farrier’s hand wrapped around him, and they had laughed, and kissed, and Collins had rutted against Farrier like a damn schoolboy, and it had been Farrier’s turn to come too quickly.

The walk back to the house had been excruciating. Collins had never felt envy more acutely than when they had passed his friends’ homes--his friends, who inside or outside could kiss and hold one another without consequence--and realized he could never have that, not the same way. Sneaking into his own house had been the worst of it; trying to avoid his grandparents so he could keep his hands on Farrier. Despite this, lying in his bed and kissing Farrier in that moment felt like something he wouldn’t mind keeping to himself. They had their own world.

Collins chuckled at his own romanticism. Farrier leaned away, grinning. “What?” He sat up a little, shifting so he could look at Collins, who blushed.

Collins scrunched his nose and turned away, lips pressed flat in an embarrassed grin. “Nothing.” He continued laughing through the word, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at himself.

“Nothing?”

“No, no; I’m just being a hopeless romantic, don’t make me say it out loud.”

“Now I’ve got to know.”

He groaned. “I disagree.”

Farrier trailed his thumb down Collins’ side. “I think we should hear it.”

“Don’t make me pull rank.”

“I’m in your bed and you’re going to pull rank?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Mm.” Biting his lip, Farrier gently grabbed Collins’ chin so they were facing one another again. He used his other hand to squeeze Collins’ thigh. “I think you missed the point, Fin.”

“Yeah?” He felt breathless.

“I’m in your _bed_. How long exactly do you think it’s going to take for you to get the nerve to fuck me? Because, well, I have things to do, Fin; it’s a busy life being an invalid--”

Collins shut him up with a kiss that was half-laugh, finally reaching under Farrier’s sweater and tracing his scars, the lines of his muscles. They kissed desperately, as if every taste might be their last. But Collins also kissed with a possessiveness that meant _forever,_ that meant he would hold on until his hands had to be pried away. He liked the sound of forever.

Forever, in their case, had a few short breaks. Sweaters off, followed by trousers. Covers on. Covers off for a moment; Collins quietly rushing to the bathroom for vaseline and back, slicking his fingers on the way. Collins, pushing inside Farrier, Farrier’s mouth falling open, body tensing and relaxing and stretching and shaking.

Collins gasped as he sunk into Farrier. How he had ever fantasized about doing this quickly he didn’t know--the slow burn of it, the way he could learn Farrier in every way--it was better than any quick, rough fuck. He kissed Farrier’s throat as Farrier swallowed around a whimper. He mapped his lines and edges. His lips. Collins kissed Farrier until his lips burned; until he couldn’t keep his mouth on his anymore, until he was gasping open-mouthed against Farrier’s cheek.

Farrier ran his fingers through Collins’ hair and tugged him closer, nosing at him, requesting another kiss. Collins complied happily. He murmured, “ _ Fin _ ,” over and over, reaching between them to bring himself to a finish. He came grinding his teeth, biting back a shout. Collins collapsed on top of him. Breathing labored, he laid boneless. He wouldn’t insult Farrier by asking him if he was alright, but took care not to put too much pressure on his bad leg anyway, putting half his weight on Farrier, half of it on the bed. A smile pulled at Farrier’s lips, but he remained silent.

A few minutes passed before Collins found the energy to extract himself from their bed. Farrier’s hand trailed down every inch of Collins’ body that he could reach as he stood, stretched, and tiptoed over to the shelf where he’d left his cigarettes. Drawing one from the pack, he lit it immediately and took a long drag. Farrier beckoned him back. Collins obeyed.

They passed the cigarette between them for awhile, all smoke and smiles. Preferring lazy kisses and tired breaths, Collins and Farrier settled into their new intimacy with the ease of fitting into a favorite sweater. The ashtray held two more cigarettes before they spoke again.

“Fin?”

Collins tapped Farrier’s knee to acknowledge he had heard him, but held out his hand for the cigarette. Farrier passed it on. Collins took a drag, inhaling deeply, and held the smoke for a moment before exhaling.

“Have you ever considered leaving Oxton?”

Opening his eyes, Collins pondered the answer. When he was younger, after his father’s death, all he had wanted was to leave Oxton. But not to get out of the village--to get into the war. He had run away a few times in his youth. He always came back, though, never making it past Edinburgh, too ashamed of leaving his mother behind. They had lived with his grandparents, then, too; he had realized that that was the cost of being a farmer in the Scottish Borders, but at the time it had just felt right. It still did.

He wrapped up his answer in, “No, not really.”

Farrier nodded. Taking the cigarette back, he stared at it between his fingers as if it could help give him the nerve to ask his next question.

“Out with it, then,” Collins pressed.

Farrier barked a short laugh that turned into a grunt. He smiled, then frowned. “Would you ever want to?”

“You mean with you?” Collins heart raced. He turned to look at Farrier, hand braced on his chest to hold himself in place, and waited.

“Yes.”

For a moment, all Collins wanted to do was pack everything and leave that moment. But then he fell back into his pillows, head slamming into the headboard. He winced and Farrier laughed at him.

“Thanks.”

“You could just say no.”

Rolling his eyes fondly, Collins rested his head on Farrier’s stomach and wrapped his arms around him like he was a pillow. He closed his eyes. “It’s not as simple as that.”

“You can’t leave them.”

Collins remained silent. He didn’t have to answer; Farrier already knew. He ran his fingers slowly through Collins’ hair, fingernails scraping lightly against his scalp. Collins sighed blissfully. His eyelids were exceedingly heavy. As it had all winter, the sun had set early, casting low shadows across their room. It wasn’t that late, however, and Collins knew his grandmother would come knock on his door soon and then quietly ask if they wanted dinner. He wondered if he didn’t answer if she would push the door open.

Tracing Farrier’s skin with his thumb, Collins pressed a kiss against his stomach before dragging the covers back over both their legs. The mess could wait. His grandmother and her possible intrusion could wait. But he--he had waited too long, had waited days and years, and he couldn’t stand another moment not knowing what it was like to fall asleep in Farrier’s arms.

In the morning, Collins stumbled out of bed and stretched and walked to the shower without ever really waking, content in his drowsy haziness. He was pleasantly sore, and the hot water was a welcome antidote. He was still in his daze when he reached for a towel and realized that they were fresh, brilliantly white and folded in perfect rectangles. Awakened in full by that, he nearly fell out of the tub.

Collins wrapped a towel around his waist. Heart pounding, he slipped back into the room and sat on the edge of his bed, ears ringing. He ignored the water dripping from his body to the sheets; sheets that would need to be washed, anyway. He stared at the door until all of its edges blurred. Inside his chest, Collins’ heart beat as if he had run a mile, though he had held himself completely still for at least ten minutes by then. Cold clung to him as desperately as Farrier had clung to him last night--he felt them both in his veins.

The last time he’d been this afraid, he’d been stuck in a locked cockpit, battling time and the ocean. He yearned for such a concrete enemy now, something or someone he could fight with panicked fists until it yielded and his heart could beat out a song of victory, not ruin. Nothing came. He sat, fixated on a single point. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes whenever the door’s shape softened again.

Collins felt the mattress shift, and then Farrier’s knuckles gently drifting across his ribs. The panic ebbed out of him slowly as Farrier’s hand opened and pulled him back to the bed, sliding over his stomach and chest, holding him firm. Farrier kissed the back of his neck. His breaths were warm, constant. Collins recalled sleepless nights on the base, nights he spent listening to Farrier breathing, nights when they both must have longed for this closeness that they had finally achieved. He hooked their ankles together and sighed.

Farrier tapped on his chest--quick, small movements that to anyone else may have seemed like fidgeting. But Collins knew he was asking what was wrong, and Collins ached in his understanding that they _knew_ each other, had _known each other_ for so long without words but had been kept apart by them

“The towels are folded.” His voice was rough, sleepy.

Farrier made a sort of humming, inquisitive noise, snuggling closer against Collins back.

“They’re folded, Thomas,” Collins insisted, the panic returning sharply. His jaw tightened around the words as if by caging them in, he could reverse the event.

Farrier understood then. He did not freeze as Collins was want to. Instead, he methodically slid out of bed, grabbed his cane, and made his way toward the bathroom. The water ran, and Collins stared at the ceiling. The water cut off, and Collins stared at the ceiling.

“I didn’t have any nightmares last night,” Farrier told Collins, like this morning was theirs alone.

Collins’ brow furrowed. “I know, but--”

“I didn’t _dream_ ,” he continued. “And I wasn’t afraid to. I wasn’t afraid to lay my head on the pillow, to sleep, because you were there.”

Collins sucked in a breath. He sat up, and drawing his legs to his chest, said, “Facing them--it’s not a dream. There’s no waking up from that.”

“From what?”

“They could hate me, they could--”

“Fin,” Farrier whispered softly. “They could never.”

Collins swung his legs over the side of the bed to face Farrier. “And if they do?”

“ _ If  _ they do--which is bloody unlikely, you know--I’ll be right here.” He walked forward and curled his hand around the back of Collins’ neck. Collins, finally breathing, rested his forehead against Farrier’s chest and closed his eyes.

“‘The towels are folded.’?” Farrier asked mockingly, laughing.

“Fuck off,” Collins replied, and laughed.

Once Collins had also cleaned himself off, they both dressed and made their way into the living room. Iain sat hunched in his chair, quietly cleaning his rifle, humming Carstaine’s favorite song. His wife bustled about with a late breakfast. While she set their places, she also danced to Iain’s tune. Her movements were small, impeded by her aging joints and bones, but she still seemed young, her wrinkles just the products of so many smiles and laughs. Collins’ heart nearly burst out of his chest, so fierce was the love he held for his grandparents.

“Late start this morning, Finlay?” Iain asked, eyes never leaving his weapon. Collins smiled nervously. “Granda--” he began.

“You boys get some breakfast now, it’s getting cold,” he interrupted, “and Carstaine didn’t make it for it to be wasted.”

Farrier, lips pursed to suppress a laugh at being scolded, raised his eyebrows at Collins. Collins shrugged.

They sat next to each other, and Farrier put his hand on the back of Collins’ neck for a moment just to tease the hair that was growing out too long at the bottom of his neck. Collins almost flinched away from the touch, but kept his ground, even when Carstaine came over to bring the kettle. Rather than stepping away after putting it down, she poured tea into both their cups and then sat. Collins braced for impact.

Nothing came. Catstaine smiled at her grandson and then put some food onto her plate. She ate quietly, occasionally glancing at the newspaper. Eventually, she pulled something out from between the pages; Collins recognized it immediately, and dropped his fork so he could hold out his hand for it. Carstaine slid it across the table between Collins and Farrier instead of handing it over. She blinked.

“Where did she get that?” Farrier asked. His voice wavered--he sounded like he was holding something back, breath lodged in his throat, shoulders tense. His fingers tightened on his teacup.

“I keep it in my wallet,” Farrier replied breathlessly. He looked down to the photo and back up to his grandmother, and then down again. In gaelic, he said, “I must have--I must have left it somewhere--”

“I found it in your pocket, dear,” Carstaine told him, but there was mischief in her eyes. Collins knew immediately that it hadn’t been left in his pocket in any clothes she would have seen or washed. She had taken it out of his room this morning. He laughed, more of an exhale and the start of a relieved sob than anything else, and Farrier looked over at him, for the first time seeming slightly apprehensive. Collins wanted to laugh; it was the first time he felt calm.

“You should keep this close,” she continued, “always.” Her gaze traveled to Iain in the living room. 

“Thank you,” Collins replied, swallowing against the lump in his throat. He finally picked the photo up. Smoothing a small crease with his thumb, he showed it to Farrier. Farrier stared.

Carstaine returned to her newspaper.

Collins leaned back in his chair, and, lacing his fingers in Farrier’s, smiled. He belatedly remembered that Farrier needed a translation and laughed before giving him a brief one: “We’re alright.”

Farrier’s rigid posture loosened, all of the fear and skepticism drawn away with those two words. He leaned over to look more closely at the photo. It was the only one they had together, the one Collins had used at his funeral for his wingmate when he’d thought he had gone down at Dunkirk. They were just sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on Farrier’s plane. A Private who had brought a camera with him had found them eating lunch there and had asked them to pose for the picture. Farrier had complained about it at the time, of course. He hated having his picture captured; Collins had convinced him, though, but he couldn’t even remember how.

They were both glad he had. Farrier held his hand out for the photo and Collins passed it to him.

“You’ve had this the whole time?”

“Yeah, Private Hart gave it over. I think he knew.”

“Hm.”

“It would’ve been right helpful if he’d let us know, too.”

Farrier chuckled and handed the photo back over. When they finished their breakfast, Collins took the photo back to his room and put it immediately on his nightstand.

Afterwards, they broke down Farrier’s now-useless bed. They tidied the house, and cleared the snow outside, and kept themselves busy for a while. Busy until Ann came around, when Collins’ world stopped as he watched her march up to the cottage doorway.

He opened the door slowly, holding his breath. “Afternoon, Ann. Why don’t you come inside?”

“I’ll only be a minute,” she said.

“Ann--”

“You listen here, Finlay Collins.” She held up her hand to stop him. Her voice was strong, confident, even though her body shook from the cold. Collins closed his mouth and waited.

“I may not understand, and I may not like it, but I know you. And you’re a good man. I came to tell you that you’ve got nothing to fear from my family, especially me. I want you to be happy.” Her eyes looked past Collins to where Farrier was. “Mr. Farrier--”

He walked forward, limping a little, and stood behind Collins’ right shoulder. “Thomas, please.”

Ann took a breath. “Thomas.” Then, forcing a smile, she told him, “I hope you know that Fin here has an entire village behind him. And now you do, too.” She left them with that.

“Well,” Collins breathed once she was out of sight. He was still holding the door open. Without turning to look at him, Collins informed Farrier, “I need a pint.”

“I’ll get my coat.”

It took more than one pint, more than one visit to the pub, for the village to warm to Collins and Farrier together.  They didn’t announce anything, but it didn’t take long to catch on. Andrew was the first: “I didn’t know we were keeping it a secret,” he said with a sly grin.

“We’ve only just got together,” Collins replied.

“Oh.”

And that had been that.

Weeks turned into months. February became March; spring became summer; and then the cold returned with December. Collins took a job as a mechanic. It was a good job, especially then, and even though it kept him from home more than he liked--he was sometimes asked to go to the city, though he mostly helped farmers in nearby villages and towns with their cars or equipment--, it was more than most of his fellow pilots had seen after the War. All of Farrier’s remaining possessions finally showed up from Hammersmith, and he and Collins were given the upstairs of the house to make their own. Carstaine and Iain moved downstairs; it made sneaking in after late nights in the pub more difficult, but Collins didn’t mind.

On that particular day, Collins had a job in Edinburgh at the train station. They often started days settled near the fire and near one another. Carstaine would fuss over Iain, and Iain would share the newspaper with Carstaine, and Collins and Farrier would smile as they realized that would be them one day.

Collins traded that calm for calamity that morning.

He rushed down the stairs, grabbed his hat, and flung open the door. Farrier had been particularly interested in staying in bed that morning, and Collins had been happy to indulge. But now he was running late, and of course Farrier was already downstairs, dressed and smug and listening to the radio.

“I’m off!”

Farrier stood and caught Collins’ wrist. He kissed his cheek and smiled. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Have a good day, dear!” Carstaine called after them.

“Thanks, Gran,” Collins shouted back.

When they were outside and Collins’ grandparents were no longer around, Farrier pressed Collins against the car and kissed him with a little less propriety, smiling when Collins wrapped his hands around the small of his back. Grinning, Collins cocked his head. “Get going now, don’t want Andrew to think you’re reconsidering.”   


“ _Stalling_ is more accurate. A pub crawl with a load of Scots--I’ll be dead before morning.” Farrier’s words were slow, laced with a yawn. He hummed and stepped back so Collins could get into the car. Tapping the roof a few times, he added, “Which would be a shame. I’m looking forward to 1950.”

Collins laughed. “Get to ‘47 first.” He started the car and put it in gear. Just before he pulled away, Farrier leaned into the window and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Happy New Year’s Eve, Fin.”

That evening, the last seconds to midnight were counted down in one another’s eyes.

 

...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're sad it's over, just picture them smiling and in love always. We know we do.
> 
>  
> 
> The picture is a behind-the-scenes photo from Dunkirk's set.


End file.
